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LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


Presented  by  a  number  of  those  who  enjoy 
delightful  talks  of  Dr,  Burton  in  the  Summer  S 
of  1910,  these  books  are  placed  in  the  Univers 
rary  for  the  stimulation  of  those  who  were  unali 
hear  him  then,  and  for  the  further  pleasure  of  1 
so  privileged* 


MEMORIAL   DAY 
AND    OTHER   POEMS 


Richard  Burton's  Books 


Message  and  Melody 

$1.00,  net 

Literary  Likings 

A  Book  of  Essays      $1.50 

Memorial  Day 

$7.00 

Lyrics  of  Brotherhood 

$1.00 

Dumb  in  June 

$0.75 


Lothrop  Publishing  Company 
Boston 


MEMORIAL    DAY 

And  Other  Poems 

RICHARD    BURTON 


or  THE 
f  UNIVERSITY   1 

or 


BOSTON 
LOTHROP   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1899,   BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY. 


Contents 

MEMORIAL    DAY  Pdg€    I 

MATTERHORN    QUESTS  6 

IN    TIME    OF    BATTLE  7 

A    FAITHFUL    DOG  J 

SO     MUCH    TO    LEARN  8 

THE    LITTLE    MOTHERS  9 

THE    PROLOGUE  IO 

THE    OLD    TENOR  13 

THE    PHANTOM    DRUM  I  5 

THE    RACE    OF    THE    "  BOOMERS  "  l6 

BALLAD    OF    THE    EASTERN    WOMAN  2O 

BALLAD    OF    THE    THORNLESS    ROSE  23 

IRONY  25 

MAD— TOWN  26 

MELODIES    OF    THE    MONTHS  29 

MARCH    FIELDS  29 

APRIL  29 

MAY— LURE  3O 

JUNE  3 1 

HAYING  3  I 

BIRD    NOTES  33 

THE    LARK  33 

THE    CAT    BIRD  33 

THE    MEISTERSINGER  34 

THE    HUMMING— BIRD  35 

THE    BLUE    BIRD  35 

THE    GROUND    ROBIN  36 

FROM    THE    GRASS  37 

LOVE    IS    STRONG  38 


211011 


CLAIRVOYANCE 

MY    UPPER    SHELVES 

CONTRASTS 

DAY    AND    NIGHT    MUSIC 

CLOWN    AND    KING 

OF    MUSIC 

GREAT    AND    SMALL 

ANTICLIMAX 

PERSONIFICATION 

WINTER    TWILIGHT 

THE    RURAL    PIPE 

THE    RAIN    ON    THE    ROOF 

A    MYSTERY 

TO    A     MOUNTAIN    BROOK 

DEMOCRACY 

LYRIC    AND    EPIC 

ON    A    FERRY-BOAT 

RECOLLECTIONS 

AS    A    VIOLINIST 

TRAGI— COMEDY 

THE    MARSH    FLOWER 

SAINTHOOD 

AN    AUTUMN    IMPRESSION 

CHARITY 

STREAM    AND    SINGER 

CRICKETS 

SEA    WITCHERY 

IN    A    LIBRARY 

BROOKLYN    BRIDGE 

A    PALIMPSEST 

FROM    A    CITY    WINDOW 


REMEMBERED    SONGS  P&ge  60 

COLUMBUS  60 

BEAUTY    STILL    WAITS  6 1 

THE    SOUL'S    HOUR  6 1 

ACROSS    THE    INTERVALE  6 2 

HARMONY  62 

A    PRAYER  63 

IN    THE    EAST  63 

DISSONANCES  64 

BETWEEN    THE    SUNS  64 

THE    PINES  65 

MY    POETS  65 

TWO    MOTHERS  66 

SEA    AND    SHORE  6j 

USES  67 

A    SEASCAPE    OF    TURNER'S  67 

PERMANENCY  68 

ON    SYRIAN    HILLS  68 

PERSONALITY  69 

THE    PRAYERS    OF    SAINTS  69 

TREES    IN    WINTER  JO 

THE    PATH  71 

A    ROYAL    PROGRESS  72 

EPITAPH    OF    AN    ACTOR  72 

RECOMPENSE  72 

RICHARD    WAGNER  72 

SUNRISE  73 

RAIN    AND    SLEEP  73 

TRANSFORMATION  73 


THE   POET 

HE'S  not  alone  an  artist  weak  and  white 
O'er-bending  scented  paper,  toying  there 
With  languid  fancies  fashioned  deft  and 

fair, 
Mere    sops   to  time    between   the  day  and 

night. 
He  is  a  poor  torn  soul  who  sees  aright 

How  far  he  fails  of  living  out  the  rare 
Night-visions  God  vouchsafes  along   the  air  ; 
Until  the  pain  burns  hot,  beyond  his  might. 

The  heart-beat  of  the  universal  will 

He  hears,   and,  spite  of  blindness  and  dis- 
proof, 

Can  sense  amidst  the  jar  a  singing  fine. 
Grief-smitten  that  his  lyre  should  lack  the  skill 

To  speak  it  plain,  he  plays  in  paths  aloof, 

And  knows  the  trend  is  starward,  life  divine. 


MEMORIAL   DAY 

"  By  their  great  memories  the  Gods  are  known." 

GEO.  MEREDITH. 
I. 

MAY  is  the  firstling  of  the  summer  year, 
Bland  month  and  beautiful  beneath  the  sky  ; 
An  Elim  where  the  water-wells  are  clear, 
When  winter's  bitter  Marah  is  gone  by. 
May  faces  toward  the  pleasance  yet  to  be, 
The  greenwood  splendors,  the  maturity 
Of  bloom,  — Hope's  home  is  May  —  and  May 
is  here. 

What  semblance  flashes  so  divinely  clear 

Yet  mystic  to  the  dazzled  eye  as  this 

Of  Hope  ?     Not    Youth   alone,  but  manhood's 

cheer, 

Old  age's  desolation,  sorrow's  kiss 
Above  a  tomb,  —  these  all    draw  strength  from 

her, 

Quenchless,  the  first,  the  final  comforter, 
What  Being  utterly  shall  of  her  miss  ? 

But  kinsman  proper  unto  Hope,  the  bright, 
Is  Memory,  elder,  graver,  wrapt  in  Time 
As  in  a  mantle  :  mellow  is  the  light 
She  casts,  obliquely  :  images  sublime 
She  conjures  up,  and  barren  were  the  days 
That  missed  the  magic  of  her  holy  haze, 
Making  old  seasons  seem  a  summer  clime. 


Memorial  Yea,  not  in  Hope  alone  are  mortals  strong : 
Day.         They   have   their  memories ;   looking   down   the 

past, 

We  do  behold  them,  a  most  stately  throng 
Of  figures  in  a  mould  heroic  cast : 
Recumbent,  but  all  vital  to  arouse 
A  nation,  and  to  quicken  a  people's  vows 
By  proud  ensample  of  the  lives  that  last. 

If  by  their  memories  the  Gods  are  known, 
So  too  are  men  and  women,  for  they  grow 
God-like  in  telling  over  all  their  own 
Emblazoned  deeds  ;  heroes  are  nourished  so, 
Idealisms  spring,  romances  thrive 
Wherever  those  with  heart  and  hope  alive 
Draw  solace  from  the  great  of  long  ago. 

Moved  by  this  sense  of  dignity  inurned 
In  scenes  historic  and  in  moments  great, 
Heart-touched  by  tender  thoughts  of  knighthood 

earned 

'  On  scarlet  fields,  each  hero-mindful  state 
Gathers  around  the  graves  of  fallen  sons, 
And  covers  up  the  flesh-scars  and  the  guns 
With  flowers,  those  soft  effacers  of  old  hate. 


: 
ay  and  the  sunshine  keen  on  everything  ! 
But  hark  !  the  martial  music's  solemn  sound  : 
Now,  in  the  forefront  of  the  plastic  spring, 
Pause  momently,  and  let  the  ancient  wound 
Quiver  again,  —  not  for  dark  rancour' s  sake, 
2 


But  only  forever  to  keep  wide  awake  Memorial 

Memories  of  deaths  superb  and  courage-crowned.  &ay* 

Now  is  the  cleavage  deep  of  North  and  South 
Well  closed,  — the  years  o'er-cover  it,  as  grass 
Softens  and  sweetens  some  dry  place  of  drouth 
When  comes  the  blessed  rain  ;  the  requiem-mass 
Is  chanted  of  the  mood  that  shattered  peace  : 
Where  common  sorrows  are,  anger  must  cease  : 
Sorrow  and  love  remain,  while  passions  pass. 

And  if  there  come  wild  words  of  East  and  West, 

Let  us  invoke  our  mighty  memories 

Even  as  the  Gods  again  ;  declare  it  best 

To  sail  together  over  tranquil  seas, 

One  ship,  one  helmsman,  one  ambition  high  : 

To  show  the  world  a  strength  that  can  lay  by 

War,  and  the  thought  of  war,  and  such  as  these. 

Yea,  mingle  prayers  above  the  Blue  and  Gray, 

And  be  the  paeans  raised  for  patriot  sires 

Who  in  that  hour  of  Freedom's  yesterday 

Fought  sturdily,  and  lit  their  beacon  fires 

For  what  they  deemed  the  Right.      The  victor 

shows 

Himself  twice  victor  when  his  sometime  foes 
Are  hailed  as  brothers,  even  as  Christ  requires. 

How  like  cathedral  chimes  the  names  we  know, 
Ringing  above  a  leal  united  land  : 
Bull  Run,  Antietam^  Gettysburg,  Shiloh, 
Sherman's  grim  march  to  reach  the  white  sea-strand, 
3 


Memorial  Lookout's  cloud  fight,  The  Wilderness,  —  each  bell 
Day-         Reverberating  valor  —  list !  they  tell 

How  Lincoln  and   Lee  are  friends,  and  under- 
stand. 

^ 

What  is  a  patriot  ?     Not  the  man  who  swears  : 
"  My  country,   right  or  wrong;"   nor  he   who 

claims 

That  sacred  thing,  yet  like  a  dastard  dares 
To  use  her  to  his  ends,  to  hide  his  shames  ; 
Nor  yet  the  weakling  sore  afraid  to  chide 
For  fear  he  seem  untrue  :  the  gap  is  wide 
'Twixt    empty  mouthings   and  high    manhood's 

aims. 

A  patriot  ?     He  should  be  a  blend  of  faith 
And  fealty  and  fear  of  any  stain 
Upon  his  mistress'  honor ;  for  the  wraith 
Of  mere  Appearance  many  a  man  hath  slain, 
Who  reckoned  that  blind  praise  was  Duty's  all. 
Who  loves,  chastises  ;  at  his  country's  call, 
Behold  him  valiant  in  the  van  again! 

He  agonizes  o'er  the  awful  plight 

Of  that  disfeatured  host  that  lacks  for  bread  ; 

He  watches  Labor  in  her  new-found  might 

Strike  at  Monopoly's  dire  dragon  head ; 

He  lets  the    Time-spirit    lead  him   towards  the 

truth, 

That  mind  see  clear  and  heart  be  moved  to  ruth 
For  the  land's  children  who  are  sore-bested. 
4 


OjCountry !  vast,  —  dramatic,  thrilled  with  life,  Memorial 
SQ  mother !  bountiful  of  womb  and  breast,  - 

We  may  reproach  thee,  even  use  the  knife 
For  pain's  release  upon  thy  body,  lest 
Fair  growth  be   checked, — but  should  an   alien 

dare 

Befoul  thy  fame,  a  lion  from  its  lair 
Each  state  shall  spring,  each  burg  prove  loyalest. 

Into  thy  sinews  enter  Norse  and  Celt, 

The  German  and  the  Gaul,  they  westward  steer : 

From  the  frore  north  and  from  the  southern  belt 

Of  nations  come  the  folk  to  fellow  here  : 

But  under-bone  is  English,  sturdy  stock, 

Pliant  to  Fate,  yet  founded  like  a  rock  : 

Fraternal,  all,  in  Freedom's  atmosphere  ! 

For  higher,  holier  than  the  will  to  war 

The  will  to  love,  —  now  may  the  path  of  Peace 

Within  our  states  be  like  the  pilot  star 

In  the  night  sky,  by  myriads  to  increase 

As  the  millennium  broadens,  gleam  by  gleam  : 

This  is  the  prophet's  word,  the  poet's  dream  : 

All  nations  living  in  love's  great  release. 

Call  not  this  womanish,  a  sluggard's  hope  : 
When  whilom  brave  men  lay  their  swords  aside, 
They  still  are  brave  :  but  they  no  longer  grope 
In  the  earth -chambers  where  the  beasts  abide, 
But,  feet  firm-based,  they  lift  their  foreheads  high 
Into  the  ample  air,  and  from  the  sky 
Draw  loftier  inspirations,  larger-eyed. 
5 


Memorial 'Nay,  on  this  day  memorial  ne'er  forget 
Day.         rpj^  vjsjonec[  good,  the  revelation  august 

Of  Peace  betwixt  the  peoples :  may  we  let 
Our  martial  blood  be  cleansed  of  any  lust 
Of  war,  and  this  America  clasp  hands 
Close  with  the  parent  English,  two  proud  lands 
Before  the  world  who  let  their  weapons  rust. 

Memories  and  hopes  !      O  mingle  on  this  day 
Savored  with  flowers,  made  sacred  by  the  tears 
Of  mourners,  musical  with  the  far-away 
Sound  of  large  doings  from  the  vanished  years ; 
And  buoyant,  midst  the  mused  tenderness, 
Through  the  stanch   creed  that,   slowly,   Wrong 

grows  less, 
The  while  our  land,  God  guided,  hath  no  fears! 

MATTERHORN  QUESTS 

AS  men  essay  the  Matterhorn  — 
That  peering  peak  of  stone  and  snow  — 
To  view,  some  matchless  Alpine  morn, 

The  petty  world  stretch  far  below, 
Though  after  all  their  toil  and  pain 
They  can  but  clamber  down  again  ; 

So  yearning  souls  essay  the  heights 

Of  spirit,  setting  dangers  by, 
And  recking  naught  of  low  delights 

The  flesh  affords  ;  you  ask  them  why, 
They  know  not ;  some  divine  unrest 

Bids  them  to  climb  and  do  their  best. 


IN  TIME  OF  BATTLE 

IT  is  a  seemly  thing  to  die  in  battle, 
Ensanguined  for  the  Right  ; 
The  sudden  swoon,  the  ominous  death-rattle, 

Mere  phantoms  in  the  fight 
Against  the  music  and  the  Victor's  cry  ; 
'Tis  noble  so  to  die. 

And  if  one  fail,  'tis  well  in  such  disaster 

Like  Saul  to  end  the  day  ; 
Philistine  spears  fly  fast  and  blood  flows  faster, 

The  leader  falls,  but  they, 
His  dauntless  sons,  fall  with  him,  all  the  three 

Under  a  tamarisk  tree 
In  Jabesh  !     And  it  is  a  fate  full  splendid 

To  win  a  funeral  song 
Like  David's,  love  and  leonine  sorrow  blended 

All  passionate  and  strong  ; 
The  King  made  moan  for  Saul,  his  Mighty  One ; 

But  most  for  Jonathan. 

A  FAITHFUL  DOG 

MY  merry-hearted  comrade  on  a  day 
Gave  over  all  his  mirth,  and  went  away 
Upon  the  darksome  journey  I  must  face 
Sometime  as  well.      Each  hour  I  miss  his  grace, 
His  meek  obedience  and  his  constancy. 
Never  again  will  he  look  up  to  me 
With  loyal  eyes,  nor  leap  for  my  caress 
As  one  who  wished  not  to  be  masterless  ; 
And  never  shall  I  hear  his  pleading  bark 
7 


A  Outside  the  door,  when  all  the  ways  grow  dark, 

Faithful    Bidding  the  house-folk  gather  close  inside. 
It  seems  a  cruel  thing,  since  he  has  died, 
To  make  his  memory  small,  or  deem  it  sin 
To  reckon  such  a  mate  as  less  than  kin. 

O  faithful  follower,  O  gentle  friend, 
If  thou  art  missing  at  the  journey's  end, 
Whate'er  of  joy  or  solace  there  I  find 
Unshared  by  thee  I  left  so  far  behind, 
The  gladness  will  be  mixed  with  tears,  I  trow, 
My  little  crony  of  the  long  ago  ! 
For   how   could  heaven  be  home-like,    with   the 

door 
Fast-locked  against  a  loved  one,  evermore  ? 

SO  MUCH  TO  LEARN 

SO  much  to  learn  !     Old  Nature's  ways 
Of  glee  and  gloom  with  rapt  amaze 
To  study,  probe,  and  paint,  —  brown  earth, 
Salt  sea,  blue  heavens,  their  tilth  and  dearth, 
Birds,  grasses,  trees,  —  the  natural  things 
That  throb  or  grope  or  poise  on  wings. 

So  much  to  learn  about  the  world 
Of  men  and  women  !     We  are  hurled 
Through  interstellar  space  awhile 
Together,  then  the  sob,  the  smile, 
Is  silenced,  and  the  solemn  spheres 
Whirl  lonesomely  along  the  years. 

8 


So  much  to  learn  from  wisdom's  store  So  Muck 

Of  early  art  and  ancient  lore.  To  Learn- 

So  many  stories  treasured  long 

On  temples,  tombs,  and  columns  strong. 

The  legend  of  old  eld,  so  large 

And  eloquent  from  marge  to  marge. 

So  much  to  learn  about  one's  self: 
The  fickle  soul,  the  nimble  elf 
That  masks  as  me  ;  the  shifty  will, 
The  sudden  valor  and  the  thrill ; 
The  shattered  shaft,  the  broken  force 
That  seems  supernal  in  its  source. 

And  yet  the  days  are  brief.      The  sky 
Shuts  down  before  the  waking  eye 
Has  bid  good-morrow  to  the  sun  ; 
The  light  drops  low,  and  Life  is  done. 
Good-by,  good-night,  the  star-lamps  burn  ; 
So  brief  the  time,  so  much  to  learn  ! 

THE  LITTLE  MOTHERS 

STRANGE  mockery  of  motherhood  ! 
They  who  should  feel  the  fostering  care 
Maternal,  and  the  tender  good 

Of  home  when  fondling  arms  are  there, 

Must,  ere  their  time,  in  mimic  show 

Of  age  and  sacred  duties,  be 
Thus  wise  to  guide,  thus  deep  to  know, 

The  artless  needs  of  infancy. 


The          The  little  mothers  !     Will  they  win 
Little  The  bitter-sweet  of  elder  years  ? 

'rs'    Will  love  protect  them  from  the  sin, 

And  faith  gleam  dauntless  through  the  tears  ? 

God  grant  some  guerdon  for  the  loss 
Of  childly  joy  :  and  when  they  come 

To  woman-ways  and  woman's  cross, 
Give  them  a  fate  more  frolicsome. 

THE  PROLOGUE 

Scene,  a  theatre.     The  audience  is   crowding 
its  way  in  ;  the  play  is  Dekker' '  s  "  The 
Pleasant  Comedy  of  Old  Fortunatus." 
\st  Spectator. 

HEY  !  how  they  push  !     The  pit  is  crowded 
now  ; 

A  family  man  must  come  in  season,  sooth, 
If  he  would  see  the  play.      On  Saturdays 
The  folk,  work  finished,  bring  their  wives  and  all, 
Hoarding  each  penny  through  the  thrifty  week. 
And  look  !  an  actor  comes,  'tis  curtain- time. 

id  Spec.     Nay,  'tis  but  Master  Prologue,  he 

that  struts 

About  the  stage  and  mouths  to  please  himself, 
Speedily  making  way  for  the  real  stuff, 
The  kings  and  queens  and  all  the  quality 
That  sit  at  banquet  in  the  regal  hall. 

^d  Spec.     Thou    liest,   fool,  see  where    they 

pantomime  ; 

There's  more  than  one ;  faith,  'tis  the  very  play. 
10 


^dSpec.     God's  love,  it  is  a  zany.      Proper  The 
plays  Prologue. 

Have  each  their  fore-piece  ;  so  it  is  to-day. 

\st  Speeds  Wife.     Peace,  dolt  !     They  speak; 

only  the  gallants  talk, 
The  yeomanry  should  hearken,  look  and  learn. 

\The play  begins  without  a  prologue. 

\st  Cobbler  in   audience.      How  handsomely 

they  give  the  lines.      Methinks 
There  never  was  a  scene  since  I  was  got 
So  brave  in  carriage,  nor  by  half  so  grand, 
As  this  of  Fortunatus  and  his  purse. 
'Twas  well  for  him  he  chose  the  chink  of  gold 
Afore  aught  else  —  as,  wisdom,  beauty,  health. 

2d    Cob.      I     heard    but    now    good     Master 

Prentice  there 

(Him  yonder  with  his  dame)  affirm  it  roundly 
That  he  had  sometime  seen  this  famous  piece, 
And  how  these  incidents  are  all  aside 
From  the  grave  acts  that  make  the  tragedy, 
The  true  main  action  that  will  come  erelong ; 
This  a  mere  farce  to  make  us  laugh  withal. 
I  trow  he  has  it  right. 

\st  Cob.      Th'art  drunken,  man  ; 
The  actors  sweat  as  though  'twas  serious ; 
And  mark  you  that  the  stage  is  gallant-full, 
Which  would  not  be  unless  the  act's  begun. 

II 


The  ^d  Cob.     Yet,   by  my  awl,  'tis  hardly  six  o' 

Prologue.  the 


And  he  says  true,  the  fore-piece  comes  the  first  ; 
Mayhap  it  is  new-fangled,  Spanish,  French, 
To  speak  the  prologue  by  more  mouths  than  one. 
Nay,  Hodge  is  right,  'tis  surely  not  the  play. 

2d  Cob.     Ye  silly  knaves,  I  prithee  prate  no 

more  ; 

I  know  the  playhouse,  and  if  this  be  not 
The  prologue,  nothing  else,  I'll  buy  and  burn 
Ten  tapers  for  the  church  come  Candlemas. 

[The  play  is  enacted,  and,  being  finished, 
the  people  jostle  their  way  out  of  the  pit. 

\st    Citizen.     'Twas    handsome-done,  —  but 

still  a  parlous  trick, 

This  giving  of  the  plot  with  ne'er  a  word 
Of  fore-speech,  when  one  looked  for  something 

such  ; 

Though  I  have  heard  it  said  'tis  often  so, 
This  showing  of  the  play  sans  anything 
To  gloss  it.      Well,  I  would  that  I  had  known  ; 
So  would  I  not  have  chattered  with  my  mates, 
Thinking  the  best  to  come,  but  bent  my  mind 
On  Fortunatus  and  his  fortunes  great. 
I  lost  full  half  the  lines,  by  our  lady,  yes. 
'Twould  fetch  the  tears  another  time.      Ah  me, 
Had  I  but  known  !     A  play's  a  mocking  thing  ! 


So  is  it  with  us  men.      \Ve  watch  the  stage, 
And  cannot  deem  that  what  is  playing  there 

12 


(Bespite  the  fuss  and  fustian  and  the  roars  The 

Of  laughter  that  Sir  Cap-and-Bells  provokes)         Prologue. 

Is  still  the  one  brief  tragedy  that  we 

Spectators  ere  shall  gaze  on ;  that  the  time 

Is  only  hours  few,  —  one  afternoon 

Snatched  from  a  grim  eternity  of  days. 

Secure  in  a  false  ease  and  thinking,  fond, 

How  'tis  the  fore-piece  that  but  ushers  in 

The  five-act  story,  —  lo  !  our  life  is  lived  ; 

The  lights  go  down,  and  we,  half  blinking  still, 

Must  elbow  out  into  the  night  and  cold, 

Uncertain  whether,  as  we  stumble  on, 

Of  all  the  friendly  press  whose  smiles  and  tears 

Made  company  about  us  just  before, 

One  voice  shall  hail  us,  or  a  fellow  hand 

Stretch  forth  to  touch  us  in  the  silent  dark. 

THE  OLD  TENOR 

A    MONOLOGUE 

DID  you  say  the  singing  was  only  fair  ? 
Sir,  if  the  chance  was  given  me 
To  change  from  him  on  the  stage  up  there 
Straight  to  a  spirit  symphony  — 

Well,  it  might  stagger  my  poor  old  brain, 

But  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  back  should  come 

To  hear  these  worn  sweet  notes  again, 
And  see  yon  form  that  is  cumbersome. 

The  why  of  it  all  ?     It  fell,  my  friend, 
A  matter  of  forty  years  ago. 

'3 


The          A  certain  man  was  nigh  his  end, 

Old  Lying  wracked  in  a  fever  glow, 

Tenor. 

And  a  fine  young  star,  in  his  flush  of  fame, 
Stept  to  his  bedside,  took  his  hand, 

And  strove  to  kindle  life's  spent  flame 
By  singing  songs  of  the  lovely  land. 

Ah,  how  he  sang  !  till  the  sick  man  turned 
His  face  from  the  wall,  and  took  deep  breath, 

And  said,  as  his  eyes  with  new  light  yearned, 
That  life  ran  sweeter  far  than  death 

If  one  might  hearken  to  strains  like  this  ; 

And  he  swore  he  would  live  in  death's  despite. 
Then  sleep  dropt  down  on  him  like  a  kiss, 

And  he  woke  with  his  blood  all  cool  and  right. 

Perhaps  you  can  fancy  who  was  the  man, 
And  who  is  the  singer  there  on  the  stage, 

And  why  I  listen  and  sob,  and  can 

But  love  his  faults  and  his  hints  of  age. 

Some  folks  will  say,  when  they  pay  their  coin, 
The  perfectest  singer  is  their  choice, 

Where  youth  and  art  and  genius  join  ; 
But  I  like  a  man  behind  the  voice  ! 


THE  PHANTOM   DRUM 

A    LEGEND    OF    CASTINE 

THE  old  fort  stands  on  the  sightly  hill 
Engirt  by  bays  and  the  wide  salt  sea  ; 
Its  earthworks  soft  with  the  grass  a-grow 
And  the  gold  of  flowers,  its  bastions  low. 
How  tranquil  Time  doth  work  his  will 
On  the  stormy  heights  of  history  ! 

Of  yore  the  British  ensconced  them  here, 
Old  battle  dogs  in  their  rig  of  red  ; 
But  the  Yankees  came,  and  who  might  cope 
With  the  men  afire  with  freedom's  hope  ? 
A  vanquished  foe,  with  a  victor's  cheer 
At  their  very  heels,  the  red-coats  fled. 

In  a  pit  deep  dug  in  mother  earth, 

In  a  transient  prison  nigh  the  wall, 

Left  behind  was  a  drummer  lad  ; 

Clean  forgotten  him  they  had, 

And  his  petty  fault  and  his  ways  of  mirth  ; 

No  comrade  stayed  for  to  heed  his  call. 

Buried  alive  there,  he  and  his  drum  ! 
Tireless  he  beat  it,  a  reveille 
Would  wake  the  dead,  but  no  living  wight 
Was  near  to  succor  by  day  or  night ; 
He  prayed  that  even  the  foe  might  come 
Before  he  had  starved  himself  away. 


The  In  vain  :  when  the  patriot  band  marched  there 

Phantom    jn  after  days,  and  the  rampart  scaled, 
Drum.      Tney  found  nis  drum-head  broken  through 

With  the]  hapless  blows,  and  the  drummer  too 
Life-spent ;  what  once  was  strong  and  fair 
Shrunk  to  a  thing  whereat  men  paled. 

'Twas  in  March  it  fell :  a  century's  tide 
Flows  full  between  ;  but  the  legend  claims, 
Whenever  the  windy  month  comes  round, 
You  shall  hear  by  night  as  doleful  sound 
As  ever  rose  o'er  the  ocean  wide 
Or  frightened  the  children  at  their  games. 

'Tis  the  phantom  drum's  tap-tapping  drear 
Up  in  the  fort ;  for  he  cannot  rest, 
That  drummer  boy  in  his  dungeon  place  ; 
You  never  see  him  or  know  his  face, 
But  the  tap-tap-tap  comes  sharp  and  clear 
Above  the  sea,  when  the  wind  blows  west. 


THE  RACE  OF  THE  "BOOMERS" 

THE  bleak  o'  the  dawn,  and  the  plain  is  a- 
smoke  with  the  breath  of  the  frost, 
And  the  murmur  of  bearded  men  is  an  ominous 

sound  in  the  ear  ; 

The  white  tents    liken  the  ground  to  a  flower- 
meadow  embossed 

By  the  bloom  of  the  daisy  sweet,   for  a  sign 
that  the  June  is  here. 

16 


They  are  faring  from  countless  camps,   afoot  or  The  Race 

ahorse,  may  be,  °f''ie 

n-«i      1 1      i     r  c  11  a  i    •    "Boomer*. 

The  blood  of  many  a  folk  may  now  in  their 

bounding  veins, 
But,   stung  by  the  age-old  lust  for  land  and  for 

liberty, 

They  have  ridden  or  run  or  rolled  in  the  mile- 
engulfing  trains. 

More  than  the  love  of  loot,  mightier  than  wom- 
an's lure, 
The   passion  that   speeds   them  on,    the  hope 

that  is  in  their  breast : 
They  think  to  possess  the  soil,   to   have  and  to 

hold  it  sure, 

To  make  it  give  forth  of  fruit  in  this  garden 
wide  of  the  West. 

But  see  !     It  is  sun-up  now,  and  six  hours  hence 

is  noon  ; 
The  crowd  grows  thick  as  the  dust  that  muffles 

the  roads  this  way  : 
The  black-leg  stays  from  his  cards,  the  song-man 

ceases  his  tune, 

And  the  gray-haired  parson  deems  it  is  idle  to 
preach  and  pray. 

Now  thirst  is  a  present  pain  and  hunger  a  coming 

dread, 

Water  is  dear  as  gold,  as  the  heat  grows  fierce 
apace  : 

17 


The  Race        Theft  is  a  common  deed  for  the  price  of  a  bit  of 

^Boomers  »  brCad' 

And  poison   has   played  its   part  to   sully  the 

morning's  face. 

And  over  the  mete  away  the  prairie  is  parched 

and  dry, 

A  creature  of  mighty  moods,  an  ocean  of  move- 
less waves  ; 

Clean  of  a  single  soul,  silent  beneath  the  sky, 
Waiting  its  peopled  towns,   with  room  for   a 
host  of  graves. 

The    hours    reel  on,   and    tense  as    a    bow-cord 

drawn  full  taut 
Is  the  thought  of  the  Boomers  all  :   a  sight  that 

is  touched  with  awe  ; 
A  huddle  of  men  and  horse  to  the  frenzy  pitch 

upwrought, 

A  welter  of  human-kind  in  the  viewless  grip  of 
the  Law. 

Lo  !  women  are  in  the  press,  by  scores  they  are 

yonder  come 
To  find  a  footing  in  front  —  ah,  how  can  they 

gain  a  place  ? 
Nay,  softly,  even  here  in  the  rabble  are  harbored 

some 

Who  think  of  their  mothers,   wives,  who  re- 
member a  fairer  face ; 


18 


For  the  black  mass  yawns  to  let  these  weak  ones  The  Race 

into  the  line, 
While  as  many  men  fall  back  :   'tis  knighthood 

nameless  and  great, 
Since  it  means  good-by    to  a  claim  —  yea,   the 

end  of  a  dream  divine, 

To  be  lord  of  the  land,  and  free  for  to  follow  a 
larger  fate. 

High  noon  :   with  a  fusillade  of  guns  and  a  deep, 

hoarse  roar, 
With  a  panting  of  short,  sharp  breaths  in  the 

mad  desire  to  win, 

Over  the  mystic  mark  the  seething  thousands  pour, 
As  the  zenith  sun  glares  down  on  the  rush  and 
the  demon's  din. 

God  !  what  a  race  :   all  life  merged  in  the  arrowy 

flight ; 
Trample  the  brother  down,   murder,   if  need 

be  so, 
Ride  like  the  wind  and  reach  the  Promised  Land 

ere  night, 

The  Strip  is  open,  is  ours,  to  build  on,  harrow 
and  sow. 

There  comes  a  Horror  of  flame,   for  look,   the 

grass  is  afire  ! 
On,  or  it  licks  our  feet,  on,  or  it  chokes  our 

breath  ! 
Swift  through  the  cactus  fly,  swift,  for  it  kindles 

higher ; 

'9 


The  Race 

of  the 

*' Boomers.' 


Home  and  love  and  life  —  or  the  hell  of  an 
awful  death. 

So,  spent  and  bruised  and  scorched,  down   trails 

thick-strewn  with  hopes 
A-wreck,  did  the  Boomers  race   to   the  place 

they  would  attain  ; 
Seizing  it,   scot  and  lot,   ringing    it   round    with 

ropes, 

The  homes  they  had  straitly  won  through  fire 
and  blood  and  pain. 


While  ever  up  from  the  earth,  or  fallen  far  through 

the  air, 
Goes  a  shuddering  ethnic  moan,  the  saddest  of 

all  sad  sounds ; 

The  cry  of  an  outraged  race  that  is  driven  other- 
where, 

The  Indian's  heart-wrung  wail  for    his  hapless 
Hunting  Grounds. 


BALLAD    OF   THE   EASTERN  WOMAN 

(In  Turner's  "  History  of  England  "  is  told  the  story  of  a 
Mahometan  woman  who  fell  in  love  with  an  English  mer- 
chant, the  father  of  Thomas  a  Becket,  and  followed  him  all 
the  way  to  England,  although  she  knew  but  the  word  London, 
and  the  word  Gilbert^  the  name  of  her  lover.) 

IT  was  an  eastern  woman 
Who  hailed  from  over  seas, 
And  she  met  an  English  merchant, 
And  sought  his  heart  to  please. 


20 


She  met  an  English  merchant  Ballad 

All  in  her  native  land,  °£*** 

Who  kissed  her  there  and  called  her  fair,  Woman 
And  plighted  her  his  hand. 

But  merchant  men  are  fickle  : 

Anon  he  took  him  home, 
With  cargo  heavy-laden  ; 

He  would  no  longer  roam  : 
He  left  the  eastern  woman 

To  weep  if  so  she  would, 
Nor  weened  to  stay  another  day 

If  but  the  wind  held  good. 

The  eastern  woman  hoarded 

What  moneys  to  her  came  ; 
She  knew  his  city,  London, 

She  knew  his  Christian  name, 
And  this  was  all  her  knowledge  ; 

But  with  a  faith  sublime 
She  journeyed  far  by  sun  and  star, 

Nor  recked  of  tide  or  time. 

O'er  half  the  world  she  travelled 

Until  (for  God  above 
Had  pity  on  such  trusting, 

Had  marvel  at  such  love) 
Unto  the  isle  of  England 

She  came  in  her  emprise, 
A  lonely  one  whose  eastern  sun 

Was  in  her  hair  and  eyes. 


21 


Ballad  And  one  bleak  day  the  good  folk 

°f^e  Who  thronged  upon  the  street 

Eastern  ATr  .  ,  r:. 

Woman  Were  stricken  still  a  moment 

To  see  a  sight  full  sweet : 
A  soft-lipped  orient  woman 

Repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
Her  lover's  name  and  whence  he  came,  — 

Two  words,  and  nothing  more. 

But,  lo!  her  Gilbert  passing  ! 

He  meets  her  face  to  face 
And  all  his  heart  is  molten 

Before  her  hapless  grace  ; 
A  mighty  cry  she  utters, 

And  then  looks  dumbly  down. 
Oh,  love  will  lead  and  give  good  speed, 

Though  strange  be  tongue  and  town  ! 

So  merchant  Gilbert  took  her, 

And  swore  that  she  was  true, 
And  wed  the  eastern  woman 

Ere  yet  the  moon  was  new. 
And  she  was  well-requited 

For  stress  by  land  and  sea, 
And  lived  her  life  as  glad  a  wife 

As  ever  did  ladye. 


22 


BALLAD  OF  THE  THORNLESS  ROSE 

ASSISI  town  had  a  garden  once 
With  roses  set  of  a  wondrous  kind. 
And  Francis,  monk,  was  the  gardener 
(The  world  is  still  with  his  name  astir) 
To  shield  them  from  the  wind. 

For  they  grew  and  blew  in  that  peaceful  spot 

With  never  a  thorn  to  prick  the  hand 
Of  one  that  plucked  them,  —  if  but  he 
Loved  Christ  and  trowed  on  his  sovereignty, 
Or  fought  with  a  believing  brand. 

But  there  came  a  maid  of  noble  race 

Once  on  a  time  to  the  garden  fair, 
And  saw  the  monk  and  loved  him  well, 
As  he  loved  her,  for  she  drew  the  spell 
Of  her  beauty  round  him  there. 

But  she  was  a  heathen  in  her  faith, 

And  he  was  a  man  to  Mary  vowed  ; 
Yet,  —  fain  to  show  her  a  tender  sign, 
He  plucked  a  rose  with  a  heart  like  wine 
And  gave  to  this  lady  proud. 

Whereat  she  took  it  with  gracious  smile, 

And  knew  that  it  meant  a  love  untold  ; 
Blusht  and  put  it  beside  her  breast 
(A  place,  I  ween,  for  a  rose  the  best) 
In  that  garden  sweet  and  old. 


Ballad      Then  she  turned  away  and  rode  her  home  : 
of  the  gut  when  it  was  come  to  harvest-tide 

She  loved  a  lord  of  her  kin  and  creed> 
Forgot  the  monk  and  his  true  love  deed, 

And  soon  was  a  stately  bride. 

And,  wotting  well  that  it  shamed  her  truth, 
She  called  a  vassal  and  bade  him  go 

Back  to  the  monk  with  the  withered  rose, 

Back  to  the  empty  garden-close 
Wherein  no  flowers  blow. 

And  lo  !  when  Francis  unrolled  the  silk 

That  wrapt  the  flower  all  bruised  and  dead, 
And  touched  the  stem,  sharp  thorns  had  grown 
About  the  bloom  of  that  rose  alone 
Of  all  in  his  garden-bed  ! 

Then  Francis,  monk,  said  never  a  word, 
But  kissed  the  petals,  and  soft  at  night 
Stole  him  out  to  a  secret  place 
And  buried  the  flower,  and  hid  his  face 
In  prayer  till  the  morning  light. 


'Twas  the  woman's  heathen  hand,  write  some, 
But  the  peasants  have  it  another  way  : 

The  thorns  grew  out  of  her  faithless  love 

(The  same  is  a  sin  all  sins  above) 
And  girt  the  rose  that  day. 


IRONY 

A  LOVER  sued  for  his  lady's  hand, 
But  her  heart  was  stone,  and  he  went  his 

way 

And  served  the  flag  of  his  native  land 
And  fought  and  wounded  fell  one  day. 

And  the  tidings  came  to  his  lady  love 
As  a  sudden  stroke  from  an  open  sky ; 

Till  she  knew  she  held,  all  men  above, 
Yon  stricken  one  who  was  like  to  die. 

So  she  rose,  with  the  message  blindly  read, 
And  breathed  a  prayer  for  a  kindly  fate  ; 

"  I  will  go  to  him,"  she  palely  said, 
"And  tell  my  love  ere  it  be  too  late." 

When  she  reached  the  field  and  sought  for  one 
To  say  in  sooth  how  her  hero  fared, 

She  deemed  her  earthly  sorrows  done, 

And  joyed  for  all  she  had  dreamed  and  dared, 

For  the  wound,  they  said,  was  healing  fast 
And  the  doubt  and  danger  now  were  o'er. 

Ah,  the  woman's  tears  dropt  down  at  last, 
While  her  heart  kept  singing  more  and  more. 

She  bent  above  him  as  white  he  lay, 
Nor  held  it  wanting  in  womanhood 

To  bare  her  soul  to  his  gaze,  and  say 

The  word  she  felt  he  would  reckon  good. 

25 


Irony.       But  a  look  of  pain  to  his  sick  face  stole 
And  wonder  sat  on  the  weary  brow, 
As,  truth  for  truth,  he  told  the  whole 
Simple  story  of  Then  and  Now. 

After  days  of  a  long  despair 

He  had  found  another  whose  eye  confessed 
She  held  him  dear,  —  and  her  lock  of  hair 

Nestled  now  on  his  bandaged  breast. 

Then  the  lady  rose  with  the  story  heard, 
And  murmured  not  at  the  turn  of  fate, 

But  looked  to  heaven  and  spake  this  word  : 
"  Even  so,  I  have  come  too  late." 

MAD-TOWN 

DID  you  ever  hear  of  Mad-Town, 
A  town  I  wot  of  well  ? 
How  once  men  called  it  glad- town, 
And  what  the  folk  befell  ? 

Of  yore,  the  place  was  like  to  other  towns, 
Where  old  and  young  and  seemly  men  and  clowns 
Lived  out  their  lives ;  and  maidens  smiled  or 
broke 

Deep  hearts,  or  were  bespoke. 
Where  tiny  children  sported  midst  the  downs, 
Weaving  of  flowers  or  bringing  in  the  May, 

Merry  the  live-long  day, 

And  matrons  most  demure,  with  upbound  hair, 
Did  household  tasks  and  wept  betimes  for  care  ; 
26 


While  Shrunken- shanks  sat  still  and  took  their    Mad- 
sunning,  Town. 

And  watched  the  younkers  running. 


Until,  one  morn,  just  as  the  night-lorn  East 

Turned  into  rose  that  wine  sheds  at  a  feast, 
A  stranger  came,  bearing  an  instrument 

With  carvings  strange  besprent, 
And  stood  and  played  :   the  lordliest  and  the  least 

About  the  streets,  afield,  or  housed  at  home 

Stopt,  and  might  not  roam. 
Stopt,  and  light  ran  over  all  their  faces, 

Yea,  blest  them  in  their  places. 
And  as  the  minstrel,  playing  soft  and  sweet, 

Waxed  loving  in  his  work,  lo  !  many  feet 
Kept  rhythmic  time,  and  bodies  swayed,  and  hands 
Were  claspt  for  dancing-bands. 

And  e'en  the  little  ones,  too  wee  to  beat 
The  perfect  dance-time  through  its  cadences, 

Were  rhythmic  in  their  glees  ; 
One  old  man,  too,  albeit  bent  with  eld, 

Rose  up  in  raptures  never  to  be  quelled 
And  cast  afar  his  staff,  to  hobble  gayly, 
As  he  had  done  it  daily. 

The  player  played  right  on,  tune  chasing  tune, 
Until    the    clocks    rang    out,  high  noon  !  high 


noon 


Then  sudden  vanished,  sprang  into  the  air, 

Or  sank  through  earth  ere  any  were  aware  : 
And  oh  !   the  change,  the  sorry,  woeful  swoon 
From  joyance  that  was  rife  erewhile  he  went 
27 


Mad-  And  ceased  his  blandishment  ! 

Town.       Each  face  grew  stony  first,  then  vacant-eyed, 
And  gibberish  loud  laughter  rose  and  died 
To  silence  worse,  like  damned  spirits  striving 
Against  their  Fate's  contriving. 

And  though  this  happed  full  many  years  ago, 
And  one  might  deem  they  had  forgot  it  so, 
Forgot  the  minstrel  and  his  coming-time, 

As  one  forgets  a  rhyme  : 
The  good  folk  of  the  town  forever  show 
This  strange  wild  grieving  after  what  is  dead 

In  what  the  music  said. 

Until  men  call  them  mad  :   they  neither  reap 
Nor  sow,  nor  buy  nor  sell,  but  only  sleep  ; 
Or,  waking,  roam  with  head  aside,  as  trying 

To  catch  some  sound  a-dying. 


This  is  the  tale  of  Mad-Town, 

A  town  I  wot  of  well ; 
How  once  men  called  it  glad-town, 

And  what  the  folk  befell. 


28 


Melodies  of  The  Months 

MARCH  FIELDS 

NOW  shrink  not  from  me  for  shamefaced  ness, 
O  sober  fields  of  March  beneath  the  sky  ! 
Your  brown    and  gray,   your   russet  robes,   may 

bless 

With  deep  delight  a  lover's  loyal  eye  ; 
And  lover  such  and  always  fain  would  I 
Be  reckoned,  who  in  all  my  blood  to-day, 
Long  winter-sluggish,  feel  a  mighty  wine, 
The  wind  of  spring  that  sings  along  its  way, 
And  makes  a  music  that  is  festal-fine. 
O  sober  fields  of  March,   your  mood  is  deep, 

divine  ! 

APRIL 

THE  lyric  tremor  and  lift 
Of  the  renascent  earth, 
The  teeming  birth 
Again,  the  indescribable  gift 
Of  Spring,  a-throb  with  everything 
That's  wonder- worth. 

Let  us  have  eyes  to  see 

The  new-old  miracle! 

If  it  befell 

We  viewed  for  the  first  time  such  wizardry, 
Each  budding  leaf  were  past  belief, 

Ineffable. 


29 


April.  But  custom  films  our  eyes 

Unto  the  marvellous  sight, 
And  April  bright 

Is  not  a  magic-maiden  from  the  skies, 
But  an  earth-girl  of  pout  and  curl 
And  manner  light. 

Ah,  no!  not  so  : 

She  is  God's  daughter,  and  her  airiest  mood 
Is  deep  with  Love  and  wise  with  ancient 
Good. 


MAY-LURE 

HOW  the  heart  pulls  at  its  tether 
In  the  magic  warm  spring  weather! 
How  the  blood  leaps  in  its  courses 
When  the  deep  ebullient  forces 
Break  the  bosom  brown  of  earth! 

It  is  worth 

All  a  man  can  scrape  or  squander 
Just  to  idle,  just  to  wander 
Forth  from  trade,  away  from  duty, 
Revelling  in  all  the  beauty 
And  the  glamour  of  the  May. 

Who  to-day 

Cares  a  fig  for  any  other 
Thought  save  this :    The  earth,  great  mother, 
Has  turned  kind,  has  banished  gloom  and  dole  ; 
Music,  that  audient  outlet  for  the  soul, 
Comes  in,  and  grief  goes  out,  and  Life  is  whole. 


JUNE 

JUNE  in  the  grass! 
Daisies  and  buttercups,  lo,  they  surpass 
Coined  gold  of  kings  ;  and  for  greendom,  the 
rose, 

Bloom  of  the  month,  see  how  stately  she  goes  ; 
Blow,   winds,    and    waft    me    the    breathings    of 
flowers  : 

June's  in  her  bowers. 

June  overhead! 

All  the  birds  know  it,  for  swift  they  have  sped 
Northward,  and  now  they  are  singing  like  mad ; 
June  is  full-tide  for  them,  June  makes  them  glad. 
Hark,  the  bright  choruses  greeting  the  day  — 

Sorrow,  away  ! 

June  in  the  heart  ! 

Dormant  dim  dreamings  awake  and  upstart, 
Blood  courses  quicker,  some  sprite  in  my  feet 
Makes  rhythm  of  motion,  makes  wayfaring  sweet; 
So,  outward  or  inward,  the  meaning  is  clear ; 

Summer  is  here. 


HAYING 

A  RUSTIC  idyl  of  the  ardent  days 
In  middle  summer.      When  the  sun  is  new 
The  scythes  go  swishing  all  the  wet  grass  through, 

Making  a  music  down  the  meadow  ways  ; 
And  as  the  noon  draws  jon,  in  fields  ablaze 
31 


Haying.  With  heat,  the  rows  are  gathered  trig  and  true, 
To  simmer  there  beneath  the  cloudless  blue, 

And  spill  keen  fragrance.  In  the  twilight  haze, 
Behold  !  the  high-piled  wain  along  the  road 

Creaks  cumbrously,  the  hayers  spent  and  brown 
Seated  a-top  ;  —  so  huge  their  precious  load 

They  brush  the  bushes,  well-nigh  topple  down  ; 
The  field  stands  stript ;  —  a  gust  of  evening  rain, 

And  all  its  face  is  odorous  again. 


Bird  Notes 

THE  LARK 

I   STOOD  knee-deep  within  a  field  of  grain, 
And  felt  a  sudden  flash  of  facile  wings 
That  off  the  ground  rose  straight  into  the  blue. 
And  looking,  saw  it  was  the  lark,  a  wight 
In  all  my  days  I  had  not  glimpsed  at  home, 
And  now  must  find  beyond  the  foam-white  seas 
For  the  first  time.      This  child  of  ecstasy 
Shook  down  roulades  of  song,  and  clove  the  air 
Up,  up  and  ever  up  towards  very  heaven, 
A  speck  of  buoyant  life  against  the  sky, 
And  bird-kind's  one  embodiment  of  soul 
In  God-aspiring  flight.      Across  my  mind 
Rushed  Shakespeare's  hymn  and  Shelley's  heav- 
enly lay, 

Wherein  this  bird,  etherealized,  becomes 
More  beautiful,  and  less  of  mortal  mould  ; 
Until  half-dazed  I  stood,  nor  hardly  knew 
Whether  I  heard  the  descant  of  the  lark, 
Or  those  dear  singers  of  the  human  race 
Make  subtle  music  for  my  brooding  ear. 

THE  CAT-BIRD 

A  SKULKER  in  a  thicket,  loud  and  harsh 
His  note,  his  message  so  unbeautiful 
It  does  belie  his  bird  shape,  cheat  the  sense. 
But  hark  !     All  suddenly  a  wondrous  lay 


33 


The  Cat-   And    from    the   self-same    throat.       'Tis  now    a 

thrush 

Uttering  its  nunlike  spirit  on  the  air ; 
And  now  a  robin,  cheery-sweet  and  plumed 
For  morning  minstrelsy  that  wakes  the  day  ; 
And  now  a  mingled  rapture  of  them  both 
With  Somewhat  superadded.      A  strange  bird, 
Yet  in  his  fashion  not  unlike  to  man, 
Who  often  hides  a  music-potent  soul 
Under  some  uncouth  semblance  of  a  song 
That  strikes  the  ear  but  lamely,  —  till  some  stress 
Of  life,  some  lyric  impulse,  bids  him  break 
His  custom,  and  the  world  is  blessedly 
Enthralled,  the  melody  is  so  divine. 

THE  MEISTERSINGER 

THE  magic  moment  of  the  eve  has  come, 
When  keen  behind  the  hill  the  after-glow 
Makes   gold    and  flame  of  heaven,    too  soon  to 

change 
To    mother-of-pearl  ;  and  hark  !  the    hid  thrush 

sings 

His  master-song,  wee  Walter  of  the  wood, 
So  silvery  and  sweet  that  one  is  sure 
He'll  win  his  Eva,  put  to  shame  for  aye 
All  rivals,  prove  himself  a  knight  indeed 
At  minstrelsy,  and  live  by  music's  might 
So  long  as  men  have  ears  and  Time  a  tongue. 


34 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

IS  it  a  monster  bee, 
Or  is  it  a  midget  bird, 
Or  yet  an  air-born  mystery 

That  now  yon  marigold  has  stirred, 
And  now  on  vocal  wing 

To  a  neighbor  bloom  is  whirred, 
In  an  aery  ecstasy,  in  a  passion  of  pilfering  ? 

Ah  !   'tis  the  humming-bird, 

Rich-coated  one, 

Ruby-throated  one, 
That  is  not  chosen  for  song, 
But  throws  its  whole  rapt  sprite 

Into  the  secrets  of  flowers 
The  summer  days  along, 

Into  most  odorous  hours, 
Into  a  murmurous  sound  of  wings  too  swift  for 

sight  ! 

THE  BLUEBIRD 

IN  the  very  spring, 
Nay,   in    the    bluster  of   March,   or    haply 

before, 

The  bluebird  comes,  and,  a-wing 
Or  alight,  seems  evermore 
For  song  that  is  sweet  and  soft. 

His  footprints  oft 
Make  fretwork  along  the  snow 
When  the  weather  is  bleak  ablow, 
When  his  hardihood  by  cold  is  pinched  full  sore. 
35 


The  Then  deep  in  the  fall, 

Bluebird.  jn  ^e  Indian-summer  while,  in  the  dreamy  days, 
When  the  errant  songsters  all 
Grow  slack  in  songful  ways, 
You  may  hear  his  warble  still 

By  field  or  hill ; 
Until,  with  an  azure  rush 
Of  motion,  music  —  hush  ! 

He  is  off,  he  is  mutely  whelmed  in  the  southern 
haze! 


THE  GROUND-ROBIN 

FROM  a  low  birch-tree  just  outside  my  win- 
dow, 
Here   in  the  wind-fresh  green   New   Hampshire 

country, 

All  through  the  day,  and  even  at  the  nightfall, 
Cheery,  distinct,  his  heart  a  home  for  hope, 
His  throat  full  swollen  with  desire  of  music, 
A  little  ground-robin  sits  and  sings, 
Symbol  of  summer,  neighbor  dear  to  me. 

I  never  hear  his  note  in  other  places  ; 
But  when  June  comes,  and  I  return  to  live 
Among  the  birches  and  memorial  pines, 
Lo,  faithful  to  the  tryst,  alert  and  buoyant, 
His  strain  familiar  greets  my  welcoming  soul, 
And  seems  the  type  of  all  time-keeping  things, 
Rebuking  chance  and  change.      Illusion  sweet 
Uprises  with  the  sound  :   of  all  the  birds 

36 


I  know,  this  songster  speaks  most  plain  to  me,        The 
Making  impermanence  a  very  myth.  Ground- 

So  carol  on,  ground-robin  !  each  green  year 
I  listen  for  you,  and  'twould  be  a  grief 
Beyond  mere  words,   some  June,   some  fragrant 

morrow, 

To  sit  and  hearken  by  the  open  window 
In  vain  ;   for  in  a  flood  of  fond  regret 
Would  come  a  sense  of  loss,  of  unrequited 
Love,  of  faith  broken  at  length,  of  fickle 
Friendship,  and  joy  too  beautiful  to  last  : 
Sing  on,  ground-robin,  sing  ! 

FROM  THE  GRASS 

NOW,  for  a  moment,  all  is  well  : 
The  eye  looks  out  on  lovely  things  — 
Midsummer's  facile  miracle 
Of  sky  and  field  and  bird-swift  wings. 

Hush,  heart,  deep  fellow  feeling  all 
The  world-pain ;  haply  this  may  be 
A  symbol  of  some  good  to  fall, 
Come  homing- time,  for  me  and  thee. 

The  old  illusion  ?     Nature' s  art 
To  cozen  us  of  Life' s  keen  smart  ? 
Nay,  life  is  love  ;  love  lasts,  O  heart. 


37 


LOVE  IS  STRONG 

A  VIEWLESS  thing  is  the  wind, 
But  its  strength  is  mightier  far 
Than  a  phalanxed  host  in  battle  line, 
Than  the  limbs  of  a  Samson  are. 

And  a  viewless  thing  is  Love, 

And  a  name  that  vanisheth ; 
But  her  strength  is  the  wind's  wild  strength  above, 

For  she  conquers  shame  and  Death. 

CLAIRVOYANCE 

THE  worldling  sat  and  cursed  his  empty  fate, 
His  haggard,  hopeless  days,  the  cruelty 
Practised  upon  his  fellow-men  by  powers 
Pitiless,  inscrutable.      And  then  he  turned 
And  saw  beside  him  sit  the  quiet  nun 
In   garb  of  meek-worn  black   touched  soft  with 

white 

About  the  neck,  and  from  a  purple  string 
Pendent  the  Christ  upon  a  cross  of  bronze. 
His  fevered  pulses  cooled  and  calmed  before 
Those  faithful  eyes,  the  peace  across  the  brow, 
The  pallor  of  long  vigils  and  the  joy 
Of  sacrifice,  that  made  a  lambency 
Of  the  plain  features. 

Of  a  sudden  then 

He  knew  his  vision  blurred,  his  bitterness 
Misuse  of  dear- worth  hours  ;  what  he  called  sight, 
Purblindness  of  the  flesh,  now  he  beheld 
The  crystal-clear  clairvoyance  of  the  Pure. 

38 


MY  UPPER  SHELVES 

CLOSE  at  my  feet  in  stolid  rows  they  sit, 
The  grave  great  tomes  that  furnish  forth  my 
wit ; 

Like  reverend  oaks  they  are  of  Academe, 
Within    whose    shade    broods    science,    thought- 

adream. 

I  honor  them  and  hearken  to  their  lore, 
And  with  a  formal  fondness  view  them  o'er; 
As  ever  with  the  wise,  they  have  the  floor  ! 

But  high  on  top,  all  other  books  above, 

The  precious  pocket  volumes  that  I  love 

Forgather,  in  a  Friends'  Society 

Whose  silences  are  pregnant  unto  me. 

The  poets  be  there,  companions  tried  and  true 

On  many  a  walk,  for  many  a  fireside  brew  ; 

The  golden  lays  of  Greece,  the  grace  urbane 

Of  Roman  Horace  ;  or  some  later  strain 

From  lyre  Elizabethan,  passion-strong  ; 

From  minnesinger  or  from  master-song ; 

And  down  the  tuneful  choirs  of  nearer  days, 

The  chants  of  Hugo,  or  the  soulful  praise 

Of  Wordsworth,  tranced  among  his  native  fells  ; 

The  orphic  art  of  Emerson  ;  the  wail 

Of  Heine,  ever  slave  to  Beauty's  spells ; 

The  voice  of  Tennyson  in  many  a  musing  tale. 

These  and  their  fellows  poise  above  my  head, 

And  at  their  beck  imperious  I  am  led 

Through  all  delights  of  living  and  of  dead. 


39 


My  Upper  Less  weighty,  say  you  ?     All  aerial  things 
Shelves.     That  float  on  fancies  or  that  fly  on  wings 

Are  small  of  bulk,  and  hence  soar  heaven-high  ; 
They  have  all  manner  of  wild  sweet  escapes 
From  bonds  of  earth,  and  so  they  do  not  die 
As  die  these  grosser,  more  imprisoned  shapes. 
My  upper  shelves  uphc  d  a  mystic  crowd, 
Whose   lightest  word,   though    scarcely  breathed 

aloud, 

Will  all  outweigh  a  million  folios 
That  groan  with  wisdom  and  with  scholar- woes, 
So  long  as  love  is  love  and  blooms  a  sole  red  rose  ! 

CONTRASTS 

STRANGE,   that  we    creatures  of  the   petty 
ways, 

Poor  prisoners  behind  these  fleshly  bars, 
Can    sometimes    think    us    thoughts    with     God 

ablaze, 
Touching  the  fringes  of  the  outer  stars. 

And  stranger  still  that,  having  flown  so  high 
And  stood  unshamed  in  shining  presences, 

We  can  resume  our  smallness,  nor  imply 
In  mien  or  gesture  what  that  memory  is. 

DAY  AND    NIGHT  MUSIC 

THE  multitudinous  murmurings  of  Day  ! 
The  jocund  motions  that  are  in  the  trees, 
The  flecks  of  sunshine  tossing  in  the  breeze, 
The  meadow  music  that  is  miles  away, 
40 


The  volant  birds  that  cannot  stay  from  song,  Day  and 

The  sound  of  woods  and  waters,  spirits  strong,  —  Night 
These,  all  of  these,  Music' 

Are  of  the  light,  and  to  the  Day  belong. 

Nor  less,  the  populous  breathings  of  the  Night : 
The  vast  and  vocal  rhythms  far  and  near 
Of  the  cicadas,  and  the  tree-toads'  clear 
Exalted  answer  from  their  leafy  height ; 
The  bats  that  haunt  the  air  with  dusky  whir, 
The  myriad  nameless  things  that  are  astir,  — 

These  all  appear 
As  myrmidons  of  Night  and  parts  of  her. 

CLOWN  AND  KING 

HOOP-LA,  hey  !  cried  the  clown  in  the  ring, 
(Weep,  weep,  said  his  heart). 
Alack  a-day  !  sighed  the  stately  king, 
(Leap,  leap,  said  his  heart). 

The  clown's  dear  daughter  lay  a-dying, 
And  so  his  painted  face  was  trying 
To  veil  an  anguished  mind. 

The  king's  chief  rival  lay  a-dying  ; 
His  grief  was  mock,  for  he  was  trying 
To  make  the  big  world  blind. 

Whene'er  I  fear  there  is  no  God, 
But  blindest  force  in  star  and  sod, 

A  whisper  says  :   There  must  be  One 
To  read  beneath  what  things  are  done 
And  grasp  the  doer's  will  ; 
41 


Clown  The  clown's  wrung  heart, 

and  King. 


Life's  woven  good-and-ill. 

OF  MUSIC 

THE  miner  delves  in  caverns  of  the  earth 
Away  from  God's  dear  light,  from  everything 
That  breedeth  joy  and  hope  and  wholesome  mirth. 
Ah,  heaven,   how  fair  the  change,  how  good 

to  spring 
Into  the  open,  after  dark  and  dearth  ! 

The  sailor  gasps  upon  a  sullen  sea, 

Shipwrecked,  half  mad  for  water,  dying  there  ; 
Yet  all  the  brine  is  but  a  mockery, 

And  devils  leer  along  the  burning  air. 
Then,  rain  !  how  all-divine  that  drink  must  be  ! 

One,  a  world  wanderer,  drifts  from  strand  to  strand 
For  heedless  years,  —  but  then  is  fain  to  roam 

No  more  ;  he  longs  to  clasp  some  kinsman's  hand, 
To  sleep  in  sacred  chambers  of  his  home. 

How  blest  the  day  he  hails  the  loved,  lost  land  ! 

But  neither  light,  nor  drink,  nor  home  ways  stir 
Such  rare  delight,  such  infinite  keen  bliss 

In  them,  as  comes  to  me,  a  worshipper 
Of  music,  when  I  hear  it  yearn  and  kiss  : 

Life  thrills,  grows  luminous-large,  smells  sweet 
with  balm  and  myrrh. 

42 


GREAT  AND  SMALL 

THE  highest  hills 
Are  wrinkles  in  Time's  transitory  dust  ; 
The  tiniest  rills 

Are  seas  at  birth  that  mould  the  earth's  huge  crust; 
There  is  nor  great  nor  small,  —  our  fumbling  eyes 
Confuse  the  Essence  with  mere  shape  and  size. 

ANTICLIMAX 

I   WALKED  a  city  street,  and  suddenly 
I  saw  a  tiny  lad.      The  winter  wind 
Howled  fitfully,  and  all  the  air  above 
The  clear-cut  outline  of  the  buildings  tall 
Seemed  full  of  knives  that  cut  against  the  face  : 
An  awful  night  among  the  unhoused  poor  ! 
The  boy  was  tattered  ;  both  his  hands  were  thrust 
For  show  of  warmth  within  his  pocket-holes, 
Where  pockets  had  not  been  for  many  a  day. 
One  trouser-leg  was  long  enough  to  hide 
The  naked  flesh,  but  one,  in  mockery 
A  world  too  short,  though  he  was  monstrous  small, 
Left  bare  and  red  his  knee  —  a  cruel  thing  ! 
Then*  swelled  my  selfish  heart  with  tenderness 
And  pity  for  the  waif:   to  think  of  one 
So  young,  so  seeming  helpless,  homeless  too, 
Breasting  the  night,  a-shiver  with  the  cold  ! 
Gaining  a  little,  soon  I  passed  him  by, 
My  fingers  reaching  for  a  silver  coin 
To  make  him  happier,  if  only  for 
An  hour,  when  —  I  marvelled  as  I  heard  — 
His  mouth  was  puckered  up  in  cheery  wise, 

43 


Anti-         And  in  the  very  teeth  of  fortune's  frown 
dimax.      j-je  whistled  loud  a  scrap  of  some  gay  tune  ! 
And  I  must  know  that  all  my  ready  tears 
Fell  on  a  mood  more  merry  than  mine  own. 

PERSONIFICATION 

MAKE    Him   a  name,  a   something    vague, 
enskied, 

You  win  cool  heads,   perchance,  to  cool 
assent ; 

Make  Him  a  babe  unwitting,  open-eyed, 
All  mother  hearts  enclasp  the  Innocent ; 
Make  Him  a  man,  careworn  and  crucified, 
And    straight    men  love  Him,   knowing  what  is 
meant. 

WINTER  TWILIGHT 

A  LITTLE  while  ago  and  you  might  see 
The  ebon  trees  against  the  saffron  sky 
That  shifts  through  flame  to  rose  ;  but  now  a  calm 
Of  solemn  blue  above,  a  stilly  time, 
With  pines  that  peer  and  listen,  while  the  snow 
Gleams  ghostly  and  the  brittle  sound  of  ice 
Tinkles  along  the  dumbness,  strangely  loud, 
Since  all  the  air  is  tranced.      Housed-in,  the  folk 
Close-gather  at  the  ingle,  and  the  hour 
Of  fireside  cheer  and  homely  talk  of  kin 
Is  welcomed,  as  the  big,  vague  world  beyond 
Moves  night  ward,  merges  into  mystery. 


44 


THE  RURAL  PIPE 

(THE  RUSTIC  POET  SOLILOQUIZES) 

NAY,  chide  me  not  because  my  pipe  oft  sings 
Of  country  doings  and  of  common  things  : 

Of  sun-steeped  fields  where  men  forestall  the  day 
To  gather  up  in  mows  the  winter's  hay  ; 

Of  kine  called  musically  at  the  bars, 

And  swaying  home  beneath  the  early  stars ; 

Of  woods  divinely  cool,  where  moss  and  fern 
Do  haunt  the  pleasant  places  of  the  burn  ; 

Of  berry  pickings,  and  of  harvest  fun 

Beneath  the  moon  when  day-work  all  is  done  ; 

Of  fall  forgatherings,  when  nuts  are  thick. 
And  boys  beat  out  the  burrs  with  lusty  stick  ; 

Of  storm-bound  labors  and  of  snowings-in, 
When  water  lacks,  and  low  is  every  bin  ; 

Of  cutting  ice  upon  the  waveless  lake, 
Where  skaters  whirl  and  frosty  music  make  ; 

Of  these,  and  more,  the  happenings  manifold, 
Whereby  the  countryside's  full  tale  is  told. 

Nay,  chide  me  not,  for  these  are  things  I  see 
And  know  and  love  —  the  very  heart  of  me. 

So  did  Theocritus,  and  still  we  hear 
His  airs  Sicilian  and  his  message  clear. 
45 


THE  RAIN    ON  THE  ROOF 

UNDER  the  eaves  is  the  haunt  I  love  ! 
With  the  outer  world  a  myth, 
With  the  cloud-sea  drowning  the  stars  above, 

And  the  day  work  over  with ; 
To  lean  me  back  with  my  thoughts  in  tune, 

To  feel  from  my  cares  aloof, 
To  hear  o'erhead  in  a  soothing  rune 
The  rain  on  the  roof. 

'Tis  a  magic  realm,  where  I  am  king  ; 

I  can  live  a  whole  life  through 
In  a  transient  hour,  and  my  dreamings  bring 

Delight  that  is  ever  new  ; 
And  the  cries  without  of  the  weather  wild 

Seem  all  for  my  sole  behoof ; 
And  it  makes  my  heart  the  heart  of  a  child, 
The  rain  on  the  roof. 

My  wonder-book  it  is  nigh  at  hand, 

The  drip-drip  lulls  me  to  rest ; 
'Tis  a  music  soft  and  a  spirit  bland, 

And  a  comrade  whose  way  is  best. 
So  I  see  but  the  fair,  smooth  face  of  Life, 

Forgetting  its  cloven  hoof, 
As  I  lie  and  list  to  the  wind's  wild  strife, 
The  rain  on  the  roof. 

For  old-time  voices  and  boyhood  calls, 

Laughter  silver  and  tears, 
All  float  in  as  the  evening  falls 

And  summons  the  vanished  years. 


Though  the  warp  be  sombre  that  binds  me  round,  The  Rain 

Yet  a  sweet  and  shining  woof  °*  f^f 

Is  woven  in  with  that  winsome  sound, 
The  rain  on  the  roof. 

A   MYSTERY 

WHY  should  a  fir-tree  stark  against  the  sky 
Arouse  old  thoughts  and  times  of  long  ago  ; 
Yea,  blind  with  tears  a  careless  passing  eye 

That  chancewise  looks  for  signs  of  rain  or  snow  ? 
I  do  riot  know, 

I  only  feel  that  any  joy  or  pain 

May  live  afresh  in  any  sight  I  see, 
By  field  or  nook,  by  path  or  windy  plain. 

And  so  the  world  a  wonder  is  to  me, 
A     mystery. 

TO    A    MOUNTAIN    BROOK 

BEAUTY    and  health   do   companion   thee, 
friend, 

Boons  evanescent  and  rare  ; 
Daytime  and  night-tide  in  loveliness  bend 
Over  thy  flight  that  is  fair. 

Rarer  boon  still  :   It  is  given  to  thee  — 

Far  from  the  fret  that  is  mine  — 
To  hark  thine  own  music,  and  know  it  to  be 

Born  of  an  impulse  divine. 


47 


DEMOCRACY 

KINGDOMS    and    crowns  have   been   from 
storied  years  ; 

But  older,  sager,  that  Democracy 
As  wide  as  life,  as  sure  as  human  tears 

And  smiles,  that  ever  is  and  e'er  must  he. 

Our  great  Republic  of  the  common  woe, 

The  common  joy  ;  no  marks  nor  metes  of  man 

Confine  its  borders,  and  no  rivers  flow 
Splitting  its  people  into  tribe  and  clan. 

One  nation,  breathing  in  the  selfsame  air, 
All  freedmen  in  the  privilege  of  pain  ; 

Each  soul  holds  franchise  in  the  right  to  dare 
The  altitudes,  to  fall,  and  dare  again. 


LYRIC    AND    EPIC 

A  LITTLE  lyric  the  sunset  gleamed 
At  eve,  a  heart-song  warm  with  love, 
Light-drenched  gold,  and  a  pink  that  dreamed  ; 

Shot  with  life  and  the  sweet  thereof, 
Yet  inly,  deeply  calm  it  seemed. 

At  morn  an  epic  filled  the  eye, 

Moving  grand  with  a  hero's  gait ; 

Rain  that  raged  in  a  wide,  gray  sky, 
Winds  that  moaned  disconsolate, 

An  elemental  clash  and  cry. 


ON   A    FERRY-BOAT 

THE  river  widens  to  a  pathless  sea 
Beneath  the  rain  and  mist  and  sullen  skies. 
Look  out  the  window  ;  'tis  a  gray  emprise, 
This  piloting  of  massed  humanity 

Onsuch  a  day,  from  shore  to  busy  shore, 
And  breeds  the  thought  that  beauty  is  no  more. 

But  see  yon  woman  in  the  cabin  seat, 

The  Southland  in  her  face  and  foreign  dress  ; 
She  bends  above  a  babe,  with  tenderness 
That   mothers    use  ;    her   mouth  grows  soft  and 

sweet. 
Then,  lifting  eyes,  ye  saints  in  heaven,  what 

pain 
In  that  strange  look  of  hers  into  the  rain  ! 

There  lies  a  vivid  band  of  scarlet  red 

With  careless  grace  across  her  raven  hair  ; 

Her  cheek  burns  brown  ;  and  'tis  her  way  to 

wear 
A  gown  where  colors  stand  in  satin's  stead. 

Her  eye  gleams  dark  as  any  you  may  see 

Along  the  winding  roads  of  Italy. 

What  dreamings  must  be  hers  of  sunny  climes, 
This  beggar  woman  midst  the  draggled  throng  ! 
How  must  she  pine  for  solaces  of  song, 

For  warmth  and  love  to  furnish  laughing-times  ! 
Her  every  glance  upon  the  waters  gray 
Is  piteous  with  some  lost  yesterday. 

49 


On  a         I've  seen  a  dove,  storm-beaten,  far  at  sea  ; 
Ferry.  ^nd  once  a  flower  growing  stark  alone 

From  out  a  rock  ;   I've   heard  a  hound  make 

moan 

Left  masterless  :   but  never  came  to  me 
Ere  this  such  sense  of  creatures  torn  apart 
From  all  that  fondles  life  and  feeds  the  heart. 


RECOLLECTIONS 

I   SEE  a  lad  deserted  by  his  mates, 
Because  his  ways  were  little  to  their  mind, 
Turn  sick   at   heart,   shed   tears  to  make  him 

blind  ; 

So  sad,  that  never  have  the  after-fates 
Brought  pain  that  pinched  more  close,  a  day  more 

dark, 

Though  many  since  have  sullen  been  and  stark ; 
And  yet  we  call  our  childhood  soft  and  kind  ! 

Again  I  see  him,  stretched  along  the  floor, 

Reading  with  bated  breath  and  blue  eyes  keen 
Of  her  the  mystic  maiden  called  Undine  ; 

Of  how  she  won  a  knight  beside  the  shore, 

With  looks  that  stirred  his  heart  to  nameless  fears. 

The  reader  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears 

That  day  she  sank  beneath  the  waters  green. 

Now,  older  grown,  but  still  a  very  lad, 

He  stands  beside  a  woman,  strokes  her  hair 
And  touches  timidly  the  love-locks  there, 

Laying  his  soul  before  her  beauty  glad, 

50 


Though  she  be  twice  his   years.      He  draws  his  Recollec- 
breath  **'**• 

More  worshipfully  than  to  his  hour  of  death 
He  will  again  —  a  lad's  first  love  is  fair! 

One  night,  he  lies  abed  in  wakefulness, 

The  while  his  mother  plays  and  sings  below 
Some  dim  sweet  melody  of  long  ago, 

And  sad  withal,  beyond  his  saddest  guess  ; 

Until  the  childish  heart  swells  big  with  pain. 

Through  all  the  years  it  sounds  for  him  again, 
That  mother's  voice,  that  music  sobbing  so  ! 

And  last,  one  day  stands  out  from  those  gone  by, 

And  those  that  followed,  as  a  single  tree 

Stands  out,  a  creature  lonesome  utterly, 
Upon  a  desert  'gainst  a  flaming  sky. 
'Twas  when  his  father  died  ;   he  made  no  sound, 
But  in  a  secret  place  upon  the  ground 

They  found  him  —  dazed  and  dumb  that  such 
could  be. 

Ah,  recollections,  how  ye  throng  and  set 
Time's  dial  back,  until  the  by-gones  teem 
With  potent  doings  !    How  the  child-days  seem 

As  dewy  as  a  spring-time  violet, 

Sad  as  the  flower,  too,  when  night-tide  comes, 

Yet  sweet  with  all  the  sweets  her  bosom  sums ; 
Yea,  bitter  sweet  —  a  message  and  a  dream  ! 


AS    A    VIOLINIST 

AS  a  violinist  bends  a  loving  face 
Down  to  his  fiddle,  down   to   the  singing 
bow, 

So  the  poet  bends  down  his  soul  to  Beauty's  place 
For  to  hear  her  voice,  and  her  very  heart  to  know. 
As  the  player  looks  aloft  and  thrills  the  strings, 
So  the  poet  looks  to  God,  and  yearns  and  sings. 

TRAGI-COMEDY 

I  SIT  a  mute  spectator  in  the  pit, 
And  watch  the  tragi-comedy  of  Life  : 
The  buffoon's  laughter,  and  the  flash  of  wit, 
The  love  that  leavens,  and  the  assassin's  knife. 

And  just  because  an  act  is  yet  to  come 

(The  fifth,  that  evens  all,  and  dries  our  tears), 

My  foolish  thoughts  are  dark  and  troublesome, 
And  over-sad  the  tangled  plot  appears. 

But  if  I  still  remain,  as  others  do, 

Trusting    the     playwright,    sitting    with    my 

friends, 
Methinks  the  story  will  prove  sweet  and  true, 

And  I  shall  read  its  meaning  as  it  ends. 

THE    MARSH    FLOWER 

DOWN  in  a  marsh  by  the  water's  brink 
I  found  a  bloom  of  the  palest  pink  ; 
And  I  watched  it  oft  and  loved  it  well, 
For  it  touched  my  heart  with  a  mystic  spell. 
52 


Till  at  last  I  plucked  the  flower  fair 

And  bore  it  home,  and  summoned  there  Marsk 

,    r.      ,  .  .  flower. 

A  friend,  to  give  me  its  proper  name, 

Its  habitat  and  its  right  to  fame. 

And  he  told  me  then.      But  it  sounded  harsh  ; 
In  my  ignorance  by  the  lonesome  marsh 
I  had  called  \\.Child-of-my-Soul,  and  smiled 
To  think  of  its  beauty  growing  wild. 

And  he  told  me  more  ;  but  every  word 
Was  wisdom  such  as  I  wished  unheard. 
And  lo  !  when  the  story  all  was  said, 
The  bloom  in  my  hand  lay  shrunk  and  dead. 

SAINTHOOD 

AN  angel  came  and  plead  with  tuneful  voice 
Before  a  maiden  fair  in  youth's  demesne  : 
"  Now,  daughter,  seize  the  right  and  make  your 

choice 
Of  God  forever,  spotless  to  be  seen. 

<(  So  shall  you  live  your  life,  and  die  in  peace, 
And  as  the  years  flit  by  in  noiseless  flight, 

You  shall  be  sainted,  and  your  name  increase, 
Your  deeds  be  inspirations  day  and  night." 

The  maiden  kneeled,  awe  written  on  her  face, 
And  said  :  "  Ah,  holy  spirit,  how  can  I 

That  am  not  fair,  that  have  no  touch  of  grace, 
That  am  as  other  maidens  dwelling  by, 

53 


Sainthood. t(  Be  like  to  those  great  pictures  that  1  see 

Of  saints  long  worshipped,  wrapt  in  sinless  rest  ? 
Dear  angel,  surely  such  is  far  from  me  ; 

Dear  angel,  show  me  how  I  may  be  blest." 

Then  smiled    the   spirit  :    "  Daughter,    trust   my 
word  ; 

You  cannot  see  how  such  a  sainthood  came. 
Nor  can  you  measure  how  men's  souls  are  stirred, 

Nor  how  old  Time  makes  magic  of  a  name. 

"  Live  out  your  maiden  life,  I  tell  you  now, 
And  it  will  all  suffice,  great  deeds  apart : 

For  just  a  smile  and  just  a  tender  brow 

Are  sainted  by  the  hungry,  human  heart. " 


AN   AUTUMN    IMPRESSION 

A  FROST  came  over  night.    Then  all  the  day 
The  leaves  fell  groundward,  fluttered  down 
in  shoals, 

With  sound  of  sober  music,  from  the  trees, 
Until  foot-farers  ploughed  through  russet  waves 
That  rustled  crisply,  fresh  with  scents  of  earth  ; 
All  day  the  air  was  yellow  with  the  flight. 
The  sun  at  noon  was  mystic-large  and  seemed 
To  faint  in  smoke, — but  when  it  sank  and  set 
It  left  the  West  a  miracle,  a  place 
Where  sombre  autumn  tints  waked  suddenly 
Into  an  ecstasy  of  vivid  lights 
And  trembling  fires,  that  passed  to  mortal  calms. 
54 


Then  came  the  eve  and  with  her  lovely  eyes         An 

Soothed  all  the  sunset  passion,  made  the  sky           Autumn 
.    ,  r         .  .  .*     ,  r  Impression. 

A  haunt  for  spirits  and  a  home  for  stars. 

CHARITY 

PORTIA  with  silver  tongue  hath  spoken  of 
The  quality  of  mercy,  long  ago  ; 
There  is  no  human  thing  more  deep  than  love  ; 
Ask  any  soul  and  it  shall  tell  you  so. 

And  Paul,  large-hearted,  spake  with  golden  words 
And  said  the  same,  foreseeing  days  to  be, 
His  speech  more  sweet  than  any  sound  of  birds  : 
"  The  greatest  of  these  all  is  Charity." 

STREAM  AND  SINGER 

THE  stream  has  a  steady  voice, 
And  some  will  listen  and  say  : 
"Ah  !  look  how  her  waves  rejoice, 
A -leap  through  the  night  and  day." 
But  bend  you  close,  if  you  may, 
And  soon  you  will  feel  and  know 
How  her  cry  is  a  sorrow-throe 
That  yearns  for  the  far  away. 

The  singer  is  glad  betimes, 
But  his  under-thought  is  a  tear. 
He  will  ripple  along  in  rhymes 
That  speak  of  the  springing  year  ; 
But  stand  you  beside,  and  hear 
The  beat  of  his  heart,  and  soon 
55 


Stream      There  will  sound  a  sob  in  the  tune 

and          That  is  full  of  the  dim  and  dear. 
Singer. 

But  the  sorrow  is  ne'er  for  naught 
Of  the  stream  and  the  poet's  cry, 
For  they  tell  of  a  treasure  sought, 
And  they  moan  that  it  is  jiot  nigh  ; 
Till  the  folk  who  are  passing  by 
Are  moved  with  a  deep  desire 
To  strive  and  to  still  aspire, 
Though  the  dawns  and  the  day-tides  die. 

CRICKETS 

I  HEARD  the  crickets  on  the  summer  hills, 
The  wights  whose  shrill  and  intermittent  voice, 
In  multitudinous  chorus,  makes  the  day 
Seem  interplight  with  ceaseless  sound,  the  night 
A  sleep-begetting  time,  because  their  cry 
Is  constant  still.      And  then  I  thought,  how  soon 
The  autumn's  breath  would  blow  and  blight  their 

cheer, 

And  sift  above  the  grass  the  heartless  snow 
Of  winter,  while  the  bleak  wind  howled  a  jest 
Above  those  minstrels  buried  in  their  prime. 
And  then  I  longed  to  know  if,  one  and  all, 
These  little  bards,  so  strenuous  in  their  chant, 
Could  look  beyond  December  e'en  to  May, 
E'en  to  another  year  at  summer- tide, 
When  once  again  the  hills  should  vocal  be 


With  their  swart  brotherhood  —  could  compass  this  Crickets. 
Prophetic  hope,  and  so  take  heart  of  grace 
To  shrill  and  fill  the  air  and  pleasure  me, 
Until  I  loved  them  and  their  quest  of  song. 

SEA    WITCHERY 

YON  headland,  with  the  twinkling  footed  sea 
Beyond  it,  conjures  shapes  and  stories  fair 
Of  young  Greek  days  :   the  lithe  immortal  air 
Carries  the  sound  of  Siren-song  to  me  ; 
Soon  shall  I  mark  Ulysses  daringly 
Swing  round  the  cape,  the  sea-wind  in  his  hair  : 
And  look  !  The  Argonauts  go  sailing  there 
A  golden  quest,  shouting  their  god-like  glee. 
The  vision  is  compact  of  blue  and  gold, 
Of  sky  and  water,  and  the  drift  of  foam, 
And  thrill  of  brine-washed  breezes  from  the  west : 
Wide  space  is  in  it,  and  the  unexpressed 
Great  heart  of  Nature,  and  the  magic  old 
Of  legend,  and  the  white  ships  coming  home. 

IN    A    LIBRARY 

A  WEALTH  of  silence,  that  is  all.      The  air 
Lacks  life  and  holds  no  hint  of  tender  spring, 
Of  flowers  wholesome-blowing,  birds  a-wing, 
Of  any  creature  much  alive  and  fair. 
Perchance  you  guess  a  murmur  here  and  there 
Among  the  tomes,  each  book  a  gossip  thing, 
And  each  in  her  own  tongue  —  yet  slumbering 
Seems  more  the  bookish  fashion  everywhere. 

57 


In  a          But  ah,  could  but  the  souls  take  flesh  again 
Library.    That  wrought  these  words,  their  hearts  all  passion- 
swirled, 

What  companies  would  flock  and  fill  the  stage, 
Resuming  now  their  old  imperious  reign  ! 
Knight,  noble  lady,  priest,  the  saint  and  sage, 
The  valor,  bloom,  and  wisdom  of  a  world. 

BROOKLYN    BRIDGE 

I   RE  AD  of  marvels  in  removed  lands, 
Of  old  fabricians  deft,  of  structures  vast : 
The  world  knew  seven  wonders  in  the  past, 
And  all  upreared  by  cunning  mortal  hands. 
But  he  who  on  this  mighty  creature  stands 

And  sees  the  sun  strike  spire  and  dome  and  mast, 
Awe-struck,  must  say  :   This  shall  them  all  out- 
last, 
Imperishable  above  time's  shifting  sands. 

But  nay,  all  works  of  human-kind  wax  old, 
And  e'en  the  stars  we  call  eternal  shine 

Less  strong  and  die  ;  men  pass  beneath  the  sod  ; 
All  things  are  transient  as  the  joys  of  wine  ; 

Save  that  through  all,  the  drifting  years  behold 
One  changeless  purpose  in  the  mind  of  God. 

A    PALIMPSEST 

I   GAZE  along  the  frore,  dim  fields,  and,  lo  ! 
By  dint  of  gazing,  or  by  witchery 
Beyond  my  ken,  I  sudden  seem  to  see 
The  Summer,  odorous,  warm,  and  all  aglow 
With  bounties  of  the  earth,  with  skies  that  glow 

58 


In  beauty  with  the  day.      There  floats  to  me    A 

The  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bells  on  the  lea,  Palimptcst. 

The  plaining  of  the  brook,  the  tree-tops'  low 
And  sibilant  song.      The  Winter  is  effaced, — 

That  was  the  writing  of  a  later  hand, 
A  gloomy  screed  ;  and  now  mine  eyes  have  traced 

The  early,  joyous  message  of  the  land 
When  life  was  rife  with  roses  east  and  west  — 
Have  read  the  secret  of  God's  palimpsest. 

FROM    A    CITY    WINDOW 

AFTER  a  breathing  space  in  quiet  nooks, 
Sweet   days  of  fellowship  with  Spring  and 

Sun, 

Midst  buds  half  blown,  midst  bird  songs  just  begun, 
Midst  greening  meadows  and  rain-swollen  brooks, 
How  soiled  and  roiled  the  seething  city  looks  !  — 
Its  roar  of  trade,  its  feverish  tides  that  run 
Through   channels  choked,  — its  legends,  one  by 

one, 
Of  fates  more  strange  than  those  in  wonder-books  ! 

And  yet  I  feel  a  throb  exultant,  strong, 
About  to  breast  this  hoarse,  tumultuous  sea  : 
"Ah,  here  is  Life,"  I  say  beneath  my  breath  ; 
<(  Here  all  ambitions  jostle  fitfully, 
Here  saints  and  sinners  mingle,  sob  and  song, 
While  far  removed  seems  any  thought  of  Death." 


59 


REMEMBERED   SONGS 

I   WALKED  an  autumn  lane,  and  ne'er  a  tune 
Besieged  mine  ear  from  hedge  or  ground  or 
tree ; 

The  summer  minstrels  all  had  fared  from  me 
Far  Southward,  since  the  snows  must  flock  so  soon. 
And  yet  the  air  seemed  vibrant  with  the  croon 
Of  unseen  birds  and  words  of  Maytide  glee  : 
The  very  silence  was  a  melody 
Sown  thick  with  memoried  cadences  of  June. 

Shall  we  not  hold  that  when  our  little  day 
Is  done,  and  we  are  seen  of  men  no  more, 
We  still  live  on  in  some  such  subtile  way, 
To  make  some  silence  vocal  by  some  shore 
Of  Recollection,  or  to  inly  play 
Soft  songs  on  hearts  that  loved  us,  long  before  ? 

COLUMBUS 

I   SEE  a  caravel  of  Spanish  make 
That  westward  like  a  winged  creature  flies 
Above  a  sea  dawn-bright,  and  arched  with  skies 
Expectant  of  the  sun  and  morning-break. 
The  sailors  from  the  deck  their  land -thirst  slake 
With  peering  o'er  the  waves,  until  their  eyes 
Discern  a  coast  that  faint  and  dream-like  lies, 
The  while  they  pray,  weep,  laugh,  —  or  madly 

take 
Their  shipmates  in  their  arms  and  speak  no  word. 


60 


And  then  I  see  a  figure,  tall,  removed  Columbus* 

A  little  from  the  others,  as  behooved, 

That  since  the  dawn  has  neither  spoke  nor  stirred  ; 

A  noble  form  the  looming  mast  beside, 

Columbus,  calm,  his  prescience  verified. 

BEAUTY   STILL   WAITS 

THE  blent  delight  of  summer  !     Far  and  faint 
The  hills,  hard  by  the  hayfield's  fragrancy, 
And  yonder  bosky  thicket  whence  to  me 
Floated  last  night  the  thrush's  mellow  plaint, 
Fit  sound  to   woo  the  moon.      No   cloud-flecks 

taint 

The  crystal  sky  that  is  so  calm  to  see  ; 
The  hey-day  of  the  birds  is  come,  the  glee 
Of  brooks  is  heard  ;  each  tree  stands  like  a  saint 
In  chastened  meditation.      When  the  bard 
Birth-claimed  of  seven  cities  oped  his  eyes 
(Not  blind  as  yet)  upon  a  world  more  young, 
Naught  was  more  lovely.      Here  in  fairest  guise 
Beauty  still  waits  upon  the  golden  tongue 
To  show  her  forth,  for  man's  most  fond  regard. 

THE    SOUL'S    HOURS 

BETIMES  I  steal  to  some  sequestered  place, 
Some  seldom-travelled  spot  by  wood  or  lane, 
Or  where  the  waters  lift  and  lapse  again 
At  the  moon's  summons.      There  I  turn  my  face 
Up  to  the  sun  or  stars,  while  visions  trace 


61 


The  Their  fawn-fleet  way  within  my  brooding  brain, 

Soul's       And  my  sick  soul  that  dormant  long  has  lain 

Takes  deep  delight  in  winds,  and  ample  space. 
Men  deem  me  drowsed  in  slothful  revery : 
Not  so  :  these  be  the  sane  and  sacred  hours 
When  most  I  feel  Life's  duty,  joy,  and  loss. 
Joy,  for  I  rest  amid  unsullied  flowers, 
Duty  as  well,  for  in  the  heavens  I  see 
Some  cloud-formed  adumbration  of  a  Cross. 


ACROSS    THE   INTERVALE 

ALONG  Life's  lowlands,  petty  men 
Mix  in  a  crowd  with  thoughts  earth-tied 
And  sympathies  too  narrow-eyed 
To  peer  beyond  their  little  Then. 
They  walk  their  ways,  all  unaware 
Of  folk-moots  in  the  upper  air. 

But,  few  and  far  between,  arise 
Great  souls  who  overtop  the  small 
And  local,  who  have  range  of  all 
The  inspirations  of  the  skies  ; 
Then  each  to  each  they  cry  Good  hail, 
Like  peaks  across  an  intervale. 

HARMONY 

A  STILL,  ineffable  harmony 
Unites  to-day  the  land  and  sea  ; 
Their  colors  blend,  their  mood  is  one, 
Upon  them  both  the  morning  sun 
Makes  magic,  potent-strong  to  me. 
62 


May  Life,  that  soon  is  overpast,  Harmony. 

Merge  in  Eternity's  dim  Vast 

With  this  same  harmony,  this  sense 

Of  beauty  under  difference  ; 
This  brotherhood  of  First  and  Last. 

A    PRAYER 

"  In  that  day  when  I  make  up  My  jewels." 

IN  that  fair  day  and  dawn  divine 
That  sees  Thy  crown  complete, 
When  radiant  ones  around  Thee  shine, 
And  angels  kiss  Thy  feet, 

Dear  Lord,  may  she,  my  little  one, 

Among  Thy  jewels  be  : 
Not  flashing  like  a  central  sun, 

Not  bold  in  brilliancy  ; 

But  white,  and  modest,  as  beseems 

A  meek  and  simple  girl  — 
For  I  behold  her  in  my  dreams 

A  small  yet  perfect  pearl. 

IN    THE     EAST 

YOU  say  the  foliage  is  rich  and  strange, 
The  houses  quaint,  the  palms  and  temple-domes 
Bespeak  another  world  —  another  range 

Of  hopes  and  fears  within  these  Orient  homes. 

And  yet,  I  swear,  the  thought  that  pierces  me 

Is  not  the  new,  the  unfamiliar  look  ; 
But  rather  do  I  marvel  it  can  be 

So  like  the  homeland  that  we  have  forsook. 

63 


In  the        For  over  all  the  sky  is  calm  and  gray, 
East.  ^  old-time  friend  ;  and  all  the  men  I  meet 

Look  forth  from  human  eyes,  and  seem  to  say 
Hail,  brother  J  as  they  pass  along  the  street. 

DISSONANCES 

OFT  in  the  midst  of  music  rare 
Comes  a  break  in  the  fluent  air  ; 

Seeming  dissonances  creep 

Into  the  chords  once  tender,  deep. 

But,  as  the  deft  musician  plays 
On  to  the  end,  the  music  strays 

Back  to  harmonies  that  are  meet, 
Making  the  whole  a  thing  more  sweet. 

So,  from  the  strings  of  the  harp  of  life 
Notes  may  be  struck  with  discord  rife  ; 

But  when  the  air  is  played,  you  see 
They  were  a  part  of  the  melody. 

BETWEEN  THE  SUNS 

EN  GLOOM  ED  between  the  cosmic  flare  of 
suns, 

There  are  vast  spaces,  cold  and  pitiless, 
Where  nothing  save  an  awful  atom-dance 
Bespeaks  of  life.      Yet  will  that  taper  wee, 


That  peering  little  light  called  Faith,  essay  Between 

To  pierce  this  night  of  eons,  and  declare  the  Suns- 

Each  atom,  every  inch  of  whirling  void, 
Vital,  yea,  kind  and  luminous  with  God. 

THE   PINES 

THE  pines  are  solemn  souls,  now  brooding  o'er 
Their  reverend  past ;   now  filled  with  bodeful 
dreams 

Of  their  dim  future,  with  its  sorry  change 
From  long- while  sequestration  (peering  up 
Into  a  sky  of  peace,  and  rooted  fast 
In  mother  earth)  to  restless  voyaging, 
To  dumb  unease  above  the  shifty  sea, 
As  masts  that  men  have  fashioned ;  to  a  fate 
That  bids  them  wander,  ne'er  to  find  a  home. 

MY    POETS 

1SAW  them  in  my  dreams,  —  a  goodly  band 
With  lyre  of  gracious  make  within  each  hand, 
A  laurel  wreath  upon  each  shining  head, 
All  young  as  youth  and  all  fair-garmented. 

They  swept  the  strings  beside  a  magic  sea 

That  ever  beat  its  waves  in  melody 

Upon  a  shore  where  blooms  immortal  sprang 
Between  their  feet,  for  solace  while  they  sang. 

I  waked,  and  saw  them  in  the  light  of  day  : 
A  motley  crowd,  for  some  were  bent  and  gray, 
And  some  clothed  on  with  rags  and  hollow-eyed, 
And  others  limped,  as  they  had  journeyed  wide. 
6? 


My  Poets.  And  often  whiles  they  sang  when  racked  with  pain, 
Or  spake  of  field  and  flower,  of  Love's  domain, 
When  mured  about  by  sad  and  noisome  sights 
And  lacking  air  and  space  and  May  delights. 

And  yet  methinks  I  loved  their  motley  more 
Than  those  dream-singers  that  I  saw  before  ; 
And  yet  methinks  they  looked  of  heavenly  race 
By  some  strange  token  on  their  brow  and  face  ! 

TWO    MOTHERS 

A  WO  MAN  walking  the  street  adown 
Saw  at  a  casement  glint  the  gown 
Of  a  mother,  meek,  whose  little  son 
Had  died  with  his  child-joys  just  begun. 
And  it  smote  her  heart,  for  well  she  knew 
What  mother-love  with  a  life  may  do  ; 
And  she  said,  "  Poor  soul  !  how  sad  that  she 
Should  lose  the  child  in  his  grace  and  glee  !  " 
For  she  thought  of  her  boy  that  lived  to-day, 
Though  man-grown  now  and  far  away. 

But  the  woman  there  in  the  window-seat 
Looked  with  a  smile,  not  sad,  but  sweet, 
And  touched  with  pity,  to  the  place 
Where  she  had  marked  the  other's  face  ; 
And  she  said,  "  Poor  soul  !  her  child  is  lost, 
For  now  he  is  only  a  man  sin-tossed  ! 
But  the  boy  I  watched  in  his  bright  young  day, 
He  bides  in  my  heart  a  child  for  aye." 


66 


SEA    AND    SHORE 

HAVE  you  marked  how  the  sea  with  foam 
At  the  kiss  of  the  shore  turns  white  ? 
She  has  found  a  love  and  a  home  ; 
Then  why  should  she  lack  delight  ? 

A  thought  lies  cold  at  her  heart, 

Till  she  pales  all  suddenly  ; 
For  she  knows  they  must  part,  must  part, 

When  the  tide  sets  out  to  sea. 

USES 

SWEET  smells  upsteal  from  the  ground 
After  the  rain  ; 

Sweet  thoughts  in  the  soul  are  found 
After  long  pain. 

Rain,  with  its  dark  and  wet, 
Fathers  the  flowers  ; 

Pain,  on  a  mortal  set, 

Saddens  the  hours, 

Only  to  gladder  go 

After  a  span. 
Rain  for  the  rose,  I  trow, 

Tears  for  man. 

A    SEASCAPE    OF   TURNER'S 

I  SEE  the  gulls  and  I  smell  the  main, 
The  wind  goes  shrieking  shrilly  by  ; 
With  cordage-creak  and  canvas-strain 
The  good  ship  heaves  to  meet  the  sky. 


A  Sea-       'Tis  wild  and  wet  on  the  waters  now, 

scape  of ^    rp^  Qars  must  ^d  ere  tnev  reacn  tne  ]ancj  . 

s'  Yon  man  that  makes  alive  the  bow, 
His  face  means,  Home  and  my  baby* s  hand. 

Ah,  brave  to  show  us,  within  four  walls, 
The  Pulse  o'  the  sea,  her  angry  might  ! 
Ah,  brave  to  show  us  how  deep  love  calls 
Across  the  waves  like  a  harbor-light  ! 


PERMANENCY 

A  LOVER  carved  upon  a  bed  of  stone 
His  lady's  name,  and  set  thereto  a  rhyme  ; 
And  on  the  rock  were  marks  beside  his  own, 
Scratched  by  a  glacier  in  primeval  time. 

And  yet  the  passion  that  his  spirit  stirred, 

The  while  he  cut  her  fond  and  fleeting  name, 

Methinks  was  more  eternal  than  the  word 

The  ice  age  spoke  —  time's  snow  against  love's 
flame  ! 

ON   SYRIAN   HILLS 

IT  is  said  the  Bedouins  cry,  on  the  Syrian  hills, 
a  clear 

Loud  summons  to  War,  and  the  tribes  far 
distant  hearken  and  hear, 

So  wondrous  rare  is  the  air,  so  crystal  the  atmos- 
phere. 

68 


Their  call  is  to  arms  ;  but  One,  in  the  centuries  On 
long  ago,  Syrian 

Spake  there  for  Peace,  in  tones  that  were  marvel- 
lous  sweet  and  low, 

And  the  ages  they  hear  Him  yet,  and  His  voice  do 
the  nations  know. 


PERSONALITY 

IF  I  heard  a  voice  in  the  upper  air 
That  sounded  heavenly  sweet  and  fair, 
'T  would  gladden  me,  my  life  would  take 
A  sudden  leap  for  the  music's  sake. 

But  gladlier  far,  O  sweet,  I  stay 
Beside  you  here  as  you  sit  and  play 
Soft  dreamy  things  in  the  minor  keys, 
Or  major  parts  with  their  harmonies. 

For  love  is  love,  and  soul  seeks  soul 
In  the  minor's  sob  or  the  major's  roll ; 
And  I  know  that  back  of  the  chords  divine 
Are  the  hand  and  the  beating  heart  of  thine  ! 

THE    PRAYERS    OF   SAINTS 

Golden  vials  full  of  odors,  which  are  the  prayers  of  saints.  — 
REV.  v :  8. 

NO    fragrance    of  the    early  months,   when 
earth 

Teems  with  the  pledge  of  after-blossoming, 
No  May  day  scents  of  bud  and  leaf,  no  morn 
Of  June  rose-regal  —  none  of  these  have  worth 


The  For  sweetness  of  the  savor  they  do  bring 

Prayers     Compared  with  that  rich  incense  swift  upborne 
By  saintly  prayers  unto  God's  very  face  — 
Soul  emanations,  odors  mixed  with  grace, 
Perfumed  and  perfect  for  that  heavenly  place. 

TREES  IN    WINTER 

THROUGH  a  dumb-shifting  veil  of  snow 
I  mark  the  trees.      The  chestnuts  bare, 
That  reach  black  fingers  up  the  air  ; 
The  beeches  where,  high  branch  and  low, 

The  leaves  still  hang  in  russet  ranks  ; 
The  oaks,  whose  leaves  are  scanter,  more 
Phantasmal-brown,  mere  ghosts  of  yore  ; 
The  elms,  of  shapelier  tops  and  flanks. 

And  then  the  pines :   sole  guests  in  green 
The  summer  does  vouchsafe  ;  they  stand 
Sedately,  dropping  from  their  hand 
The  pungent  cones  ;  dark,  dark,  I  ween, 

Their  thoughts,  and  deep  and  manifold. 
The  winter  grass  seems  doubly  sere 
Beneath  their  vital  boughs  that  fear 
No  frost,  that  changeless  front  the  cold. 

These  stately  creatures  all  I  view 
As  through  an  opal  dimly  ;  then, 
Illimitable,  mute  to  men, 
Above,  a  sky  of  hodden  gray 
70 


That  stretches  on  to  that  Somewhere  Trees  in 

Which  bounds  my  ultimate  land  of  dreams,  Winter. 

Wherein  the  Ideal  lures  and  gleams, 
Wherein  the  soul  breathes  native  air. 

THE  PATH 

FAR,  far  I've  strayed  me  in  the  long  endeavor 
To  find  the  way  of  Truth  ; 
All  unfamiliar  grow  the  paths,  and  ever 
I  lose  the  step  of  youth, 

Until  it  seems  I  am  foredoomed  to  wander 

In  fruitless,  weary  quest, 

While    strength    and    time    and    hope   I    do  but 
squander, 

Seeking  the  final  rest. 

Sometimes     poor     mortals,     forest-bound,     have 

plodded 

Along  an  unblazed  trail, 

And  felt  strange  fears  and  seen  weird  shapes  em- 
bodied, 
That  made  their  courage  fail ; 

Then  suddenly  have  found  they  circled  blindly, 

And  were  not  far  astray, 
Led  by  some  hand  invisible  but  kindly 

Into  a  wonted  way. 

So,  haply,  I,  sore  spent  with  ceaseless  trying, 

Too  tired  to  longer  roam, 
May  sudden  see  the  path  before  me  lying, 

And  just  ahead  my  home. 

7' 


A   ROYAL   PROGRESS 

'  I  VHE  Summer  is  a  queen  who  proudly  makes 
JL    A  Royal  Progress  through  the  subject  land  : 
Whereat  a  festal  look  the  highway  takes, 
And  e'en  the  byways,  too,  on  every  hand 
Turn  gay  with  buds  and  birds  and  bloomy  trees, 
The  gracious  Lady  Sovereign  for  to  please. 

EPITAPH    OF   AN    ACTOR 

HERE  lies  a  servant  of  the  mimic  art ; 
He  pictured  Life,  its  passion  and  its  glee. 
Death  bade  him  play,  at  last,  a  grim-faced  part, 
His  only  make-up,  man's  mortality. 

RECOMPENSE 

FOR  every  man  that  dies,  some  little  one 
Is  born,  they  say,  into  this  world  of  ours  ; 
I  wonder  if,  for  every  evil  done, 

Some  deed  unfolds  fair-hearted,  like  the  flowers  ? 

RICHARD   WAGNER 

OLD  deeds,   old  creeds,  for  centuries  dead, 
rise  out 

The  grave  and  swarm  beside  the  storied  Rhine  : 
The  thunders  of  the  heaven  are  girt  about 
With  silver  zones  of  melody  divine. 


SUNRISE 

THE  broadening  of  the  light  is  like  a  strain 
Of  mellow  music  from  a  golden  horn 

Set  to  the  huntsman's  lips,  who  now  is  fain 
To  play  hunt's  up,  and  wake  the  drowsy  morn. 

RAIN  AND    SLEEP 

IT  is  no  marvel  that  the  morn  is  fair 
And  fresh,  that  Nature's  mood  is  blithe  again  ; 
For  all  the  night  these  blessed  her  unaware  : 
The  balm  of  sleep,  the  baptism  of  rain. 

TRANSFORMATION 

THE  butterflies  are  buttercups,  wind-blown, 
Bright,    airy    flowers     upon    the    summer's 
breast ; 

The  buttercups,  thick  in  the  meadows  sown, 
Are  butterflies  flight-weary,  seeking  rest. 


73 


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UN  101918 
APR  21 


JN    9 


OCT  31  1S?1 
MAR  J39 1922 
3  31  1927 


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211011 


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